The Lord of Lies and Laughter
by Spikey44
Summary: Sequel to Devil's Own: As Destiny wrote the Twelve shall fall and the Apocalypse shall rise. On the brink of a dark fate a thief makes a faustian bargain with his personal devil and a painful future looms large. Gambit and the X-men/Sebastian Shaw.
1. Chapter 1

**The Lord of Lies and Laughter**

_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, locations, names etc. property of Marvel Entertainment. I am just playing with them for a little while. _

_A/N: This story is a sequel to my previous Remy-Centric X-men story: "The Devil's Own" and follows the same continuity established therein, except two years forward in time from the end of that story. If you have not read that story you may find this one a trifle hard to follow. In a nutshell, Remy left the X-men in a bid to defeat Sinister before he could use Remy against the X-men as a brainwashed Marauder sleeper agent. A lot of stuff happened including the X-men finding out the truth about Remy's past, and the truth of the Black Womb experiments Sinister instigated in Almogordo New Mexico. Although Remy left the X-men under better circumstances than comic canon (no trial, no Antarctica) he has since gone to ground and as of this story's start none of Xavier's brood know of his whereabouts. _

* * *

**Prologue: 2011 Egypt**

Remy LeBeau gritted his teeth against the thrumming vibrations shuddering through the helicopter. His left leg ached from an old injury aggravated by the constant, bone jarring reverberations and his ears hurt from trying to hear anything at all beyond the thunder of displaced air. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the thin skin of the helicopter.

'Two minutes LeBeau.' The crackle of a male voice through the headphones covering his ears forced him to open his eyes again. Seated opposite him Sebastian Shaw, former Black King of the Hellfire Club and mutant industrialist billionaire, managed to look ready for the boardroom even in sky diver gear and headset. Remy resisted the desire to make an impolite gesture as he staggered up from the bench to move to the back of the 'copter cabin and the exit hatch.

Shaw rose up behind him and followed. The older man helped him wriggle into his pack and harness and then they both manhandled the hatch open.

Thwap, thwap, thwap; the wide swath of twilight stained desert below looked cold and hard and unforgiving as the helicopter swept lower and lower until the shadow of the chopper stretched out across the dunes like a really weird and gigantic insect.

'There,' Shaw stretched out a hand and pointed to a pyramid in the near distance as the chopper zoomed up on it, 'The Akkaba pyramid.'

It was one of the older type; shorter and more bulky looking than the Giza ones, with a flat top. There wasn't a sphinx in sight. Remy felt vaguely cheated. He made a mental note to visit the Valley of the Kings sometime. He checked his harnesses and pack once more. He wished for a cigarette – or maybe some gum. He looked down at the cold desert rushing along below without enthusiasm. He reminded himself of the big fat cheque Shaw would write out for him once this pinch was over. He filled his head with thoughts of popping champagne corks and overly friendly femmes with obvious assets.

The pyramid rose up in monolithic proportions as the chopper drew nearer. Remy managed a grin as he considered just how risky this whole play was. The chopper came to a buzzing stop and with Shaw operating the winch Remy started his descent down to the dunes.

Dangling in midair is never a good place to be and the biting cold of the desert at night smacked Remy in the face like a slap. He always forgot that deserts grew cold when the sun went down. He started counting seconds in his head, one-onethousand, two-onethousand, three-onethousand, until he was near enough to the ground to disconnect the harness and control his fall the rest of the way to the hard ground below.

He landed on reflex not on a mountain of shifting sand but instead onto hard, parched and cracked earth about fifty yards from the foot of the pyramid. He straightened up and gave the thumbs up signal to Shaw who waited in the chopper by the open hatch. The former Black King of the New York Hellfire Club was already winding in the winch.

Remy waited until Shaw returned the gesture, which just seemed weird from Mr-Capitalist-Mutant Supremo then he sprinted off across the hard, parched earth towards the Akkaba pyramid. There were some equally ancient flat little buildings, the size of porta-potties, made of massive chunks of stone, fronting the pyramid. Remy shifted into the deep slanting shadows cast by these little huts and pulled out Sek's blue print map of the interior of the pyramid.

He flicked his gaze over the schematics. According to Sek these porta-potty things actually housed tunnels slanting downwards and deep under the ground, coming up inside the pyramid; these were his ticket inside. He rooted in another pocket of his working clothes and retrieved his pack of gum. The fresh bite of spearmint exploded across his tongue as he chewed. He still wanted a cigarette. He was bored, tired and kind of cranky.

Pushing off the ancient stonework he had started leaning against he paced like a rangy cat around the periphery of the pyramid, mindful to keep to the shadows and remain vigilant. Unless something had gone badly wrong company would be calling real soon.

Time to kill and nothing else to do Remy gave himself an impromptu tour of the outside of the pyramid.

There were inscriptions carved into the stone at the base of the pyramid; hieroglyphs of some sort. Remy couldn't read them but he whipped out a tiny digital camera from yet another pocket in his form fitting outfit and snapped some pics; Sek would enjoy them and maybe they'd even be useful.

Fifteen minutes later and Remy was still bored, tired and cranky but now he was also cold. He was on his second stick of gum and had begun fantasising about lighting up a smoke and calling Shaw to pick him up. Shit happened; maybe his intel was wrong, maybe le petit Summers and his faithful mercenary Girl-Friday weren't coming after all.

He wanted to go home – or, at least to the place he'd been living for the last year. Home being a concept Remy had accepted was beyond his grasp. Why try to hold on to something unattainable? It just made him miserable and he was sick of misery. He didn't need a home, or a family, or any of that baggage anyhow. He was much happier like this. He didn't even really miss........didn't miss......the thought refused to form and Remy gave up on it. He shoved down the vague sense of restless unease that tried to rise up inside him. He was just suffering heist jitters and nicotine withdrawal, that was all.

Perching on a smooth slab of millennia old slave-hewn stone left in a jumble like old teeth in the desert, Remy fanned out a brace of cards. Give it an hour and then he'd call it quits. Shaw would just have to come up with a new plan. Remy wasn't spending any more time and effort on this pinch then he absolutely had too. It wasn't like he needed the money all that badly. He was just in this to pass the time.

*****

Remy didn't know what it was exactly that made the hairs at the nape of his neck rise up on end some indeterminate time later but suddenly he knew, every muscle in his body tensing, that it was show time; company had come a-calling.

He smiled, 'Fin'ly.'

Some kind of high-tech futuristic portal thing opened up with a flash, bang, and poof of cut-rate Hollywood pyrotechnics in the open space before the ancient porta-potty tunnel entrance to the right – about thirty feet from where Remy slunk away to merge with the deeper shadows of the desert. He crouched behind the fall of old stone and waited.

Two people emerged from the glowing portal seconds after. One was a woman, tall, with chin length dark hair and very pale skin. She wore the skin tight, form fitting wrinkle proof ensemble that all the spandex set liked, but accessorised nicely with some infeasibly huge assault rifles. Remy's lips curved up in a crescent moon of amusement as he watched the woman, who had a big black circular mark over one eye, scan the empty night with a frown.

Bon Nuit madame Domino, he whispered silently.

The second person to step out from the portal was a man built like a Brinks armoured truck and carrying more armaments than the average Texan Nuclear Family. His scarred left eye flashed gold light as he scowled into all corners, and the moonlight reflected dully off his biometallic arm. Remy bit his lip on a broad grin; ah oui the man's face was a picture.

Bon Nuit Cable; you looking like an ulcer waiting to happen, as ever.

The faint flicker of Cable's psi-probe brushed against Remy's brain as he crouched watching the two mutant mercenaries. He frowned as that faint touch scraped like a nail file over exposed nerve against his mind. He knew his shields and the psi-dampener embedded into his suit would protect him from a mild scan like this, but he still didn't like it. Two years, give or take, since Almogordo and any kind of psi-touch still hurt like rusty nails poking into his over-sensitive grey matter. Sometimes this worried Remy, but like most things not strictly to his benefit, he had become adept at ignoring the niggling concerns.

'We clear?' Domino's voice was as rough and strangely masculine as he had imagined it would be. Strangely she sort of reminded Remy of Arclight.

After a long moment Cable nodded once, just a jerk of his chin. His jaw was so tight it looked like rock. The homme must pay out a king's ransom in orthodontic bills. Remy smirked; this could be fun……so much fun. Remy enjoyed fun, in fact he dedicated most of his life these days to the pursuit of instant gratification. He liked things that way, it was better than how it had been in that time before Almogordo which he sometimes had trouble accurately recalling. Remy frowned and once again that strange sense of lingering alarm slipped away into the bruised recesses of his mind.

'Can we bodyslide in?' Domino asked Cable and Remy tensed. If the two 'ported straight into pyramid central it would make Remy's job harder – not impossible – but the effort versus reward ratio would shift dramatically out of his favour. Mon dieu, he might actually have to work for his paycheck.

'No, if this pyramid is host to Ozymandias there will be securities. We bodyslide in and we're going in blind.' Cable growled. Remy smiled once more; the effort/reward ratio shifted once more in his favour. That's right mes braves, he thought, do the hard work for me.

Domino sighed. 'Tunnels it is then.'

She unholstered one of her enormous guns and levelled the plasma rifle at the very solid stone of one of the porta-potty bunkers. Twenty seconds later there was a lot of stone dust in the air and the scent of burnt ozone rose up from the huge hole in the shattered stone.

Cable growled under his breath, 'That was flonquing stupid.'

Domino shrugged, 'I was cold, and screw it, we both know that the shit is going to go fan-side whatever we do so why piss about?'

Remy, still hidden behind the large pile of rubble grinned even more broadly. Oui, this was already fun. Remy was a man who always appreciated a woman of refinement, poise, and class and Domino was a real piece of work. She was wasted on a homme like Summers Jnr. Cable was still chewing her out, as it happened, as they both vanished down into the tunnel. Clearly all the Summers clan lacked the spontaneity and humour gene.

Remy darted out from his hiding place as soon as he was sure Cable was out of sensing range. He sprinted over to the opposite tunnel entrance and fished out a Joker card from his usual deck. He eased the card into a crack in the stone work. He held on to it between thumb and forefinger for half a second and then let go, taking a dozen or more steps back.

This explosion was much quieter and better finessed than the huge hole Domino had blasted out of a relic of antiquity. In fact most of the tunnel entrance was still intact when Remy's little card trick had played out. He paused for a moment, listening in case Cable or Domino were still close enough to hear the muted blast, then he started his own descent.

Underground tunnels all smell the same – just like old gym socks stuffed into the back of a metal locker; musty, sweaty, and sort of dry all at the same time. The darkness and the stink didn't much bother Remy however. He didn't need much light to see even in dark this intense and the scent was to him, experienced tomb raider that he was, the scent of money.

He padded through the darkness, flicking the switch on the tracking unit combined with the earpiece already riding in his inner ear. There was a tinnitus causing burst of static that almost made him lose his balance and trip and then Shaw's smooth voice filled his ear.

'LeBeau what's your status?'

Remy stopped and pulled out the Shaw Industries scanner from one of his many, many pockets. He flipped it on and shook the thing as the screen burst into bouncy blurs of green static.

'I'm just bon,' Remy murmured on the softest of breaths, 'But homme, got to tell you, your toys suck.'

He flicked his fingers against the scanning device until finally the screen cleared giving him a green line contoured map of his immediate vicinity. He noted also the two red dotes moving parallel to him along the other tunnel.

'Cable?' Shaw demanded ignoring the dig about his merchandise.

Remy peered at the malfunctioning tracking device. 'Don't t'ink de receptions good enough in here.'

There was a very long silence that followed this comment. Remy imagined the perfectly blank mask Shaw would be wearing as he tried to rise above Remy's level of cheerfully juvenile behaviour. There was a vaguely sibilant sigh over the faint crackle of static popping in Remy's right ear as the Black King took the high ground.

'I find I am forced to remind myself that despite my very great desire to the contrary, keeping you alive is to my profit. It would be in your best interest not to push me, LeBeau, or I might change my mind.'

'Mebbe, homme, but folks, dey tell me I be somet'ing of a masochist at heart, non? So mebbe you be better rememberin' dat I'm your only chance o' gettin' your throne back in New York, eh? Think mebbe den you might learn to lighten up, oui?'

It was petty and it didn't speak well for his basic maturity, but mon dieu, Remy sure got a kick out of yanking Shaw's chain. It reminded him of screwing with Cyclops, if Cyclops had been a billionaire industrialist mutant capitalist slave to the holy dollar sign that is. Eh, maybe Shaw wasn't that much like Cyclops after all. Remy frowned; it was strange that he should think about the X-Men leader now. He almost never thought about any of Xavier's disciples since Almogordo. It was better that way. Better because......because......

'Report in when you've breached the first guardian trap.' Shaw said distracting Remy from the thought he was having trouble holding onto. The homme did not sound amused. Strangely Remy wasn't feeling so lighthearted now either; funny that.

'D'accord,' Remy flipped the communication channel off.

For the next twenty minutes he prowled through unrelenting darkness, moving light as a cat over a solid overlay of millennia old dust and ancient, crumbling bones. He kept an eye on the tracking unit so he knew where Domino and Cable were. He beat the two hard case mutant mercenaries to the crossroads where the two tunnels combined by a good four minutes. He shook his head ruefully. Must be old age catching up with Cable. Then again Cable should have known better; never get a self-professed mutant messianic figurehead to do the work of a thief. Cable wouldn't last a day in the Guilds.

Before Remy lay only one path; a great yawning chasm of darkness so absolute even his eyes couldn't see beyond it. Remy shivered pleasurably; he had that ants over the skin feeling of being watched and he knew, just knew, that there was something nasty waiting in the darkness for him to make that last step into certain doom.

Merci Dieu he loved this stuff.

'Yoo-hoo,' Remy breathed under his breath, pulling a card from his deck and holding it lightly from between his fingers. He let a faint shimmer of charge run through the single card for a split second and then flipped it expertly into the waiting darkness beyond.

As the card seared through the air a few feet into the tunnel Remy thought he saw something hunkering down in the centre of the path about ten feet away. Something inhuman in shape, large as a small bear, but with front haunches that reminded him of a wolf on steroids.

There was a flash of sickly green light, like the dull gleam of predatory eye-shine before the card's charge winked out and the single card fell harmlessly to the floor of the tunnel, lost instantly to the darkness.

'And lo and betide, you who trespass against the Might of the One King in His slumber and face instead the wrath of the Guardian Beasts that preserve His sleep.' Remy quoted under his breath from memory the warning line Sek had translated for him. It looked like he'd caught a glimpse of one "beast" at least.

Tensed on the balls of his feet, ready to leap either way if it came to it, Remy waited to see if Apocalypse's pet pooch decided to come out and play. Monsieur chien obviously had more intelligence than the average weird and unnatural tomb fiend and stayed put.

'D'accord, I'm all out o' Scooby Snacks anyhow.'

Summoning up the mental picture he had memorised from Sek's map, Remy found the hidden hatch in the wall space just before the passageway narrowed into one path, swiftly enough. Contorting his body to fit was not fun but he soon had the right vertebrae slipping rhythm going as he inched upwards along the tight wall-crawl space.

He counted down in his head the seconds before all hell broke loose. Should be any minute now; Cable and Domino hadn't been that far behind him, after all.

'Jesus!'

He heard what sounded like the snarling of wild dogs combined with something almost…….mechanical, or otherwise unnatural. Obviously monsieur Cable hadn't bothered to read the instruction warning before he played tomb raider. Remy continued to inch upwards through the walls as the air-slicing sounds of laser-fire tore up the passageway below him. Next came the curses as Domino and Cable came face to face with the first of the pyramid's booby-traps.

Remy grinned, swiping sweat from his brow as he paused, wedged with his back against one sloping wall and his feet braced against the other. Mais oui, monsieur Cable might be the Askani chosen one but he didn't know jack about breaking and entering. Any rube knew that ancient pyramids that used to be the resting place of millennia old immortal mutant tyrants were going to come with traps, pitfalls, and surprisingly lively sentient statues. It was practically cliché.

*****

Ten minutes later, when the explosions and weapons fire blasts had long faded, Remy oozed out of the secret crawl space passage into a large chamber actually lit with flaming wall sconces. Picking himself up Remy took time out to dust himself off and check out the scenery.

The chamber was daubed with the remnants of past grandeur; magnificent friezes and whole walls of perfectly preserved hieroglyphs were the order of the day. The chamber was some thirty feet long and filled with the sort of shiny, glittery, things that made a career thief weak at the knees. There were also dozens and dozens of stone hewn statues filling every available space. The chip, chip, clink sound of someone hammering away at stone ran as a counterpoint rhythm to the otherwise complete silence.

**I know why you are here. **

One of the statues was moving. This particular statue had the appearance of a skinny man in a loin cloth and the headdress favoured by the ancient pharaohs. His body was a patchwork of cracked and crumbling stone, brown as dust. The statue held a chisel in one hand and a small mallet in the other. His eyes glowed red as his carven head turned on his scrawny neck with a sound not unlike two large stones grinding together.

'Is dat right?' Remy examined the statue-man curiously, 'You be Ozymandias, oui?'

**I am and ever shall be he.**

Remy nodded rocking back to the heels of his feet and then onto the balls, 'D'accord, dat's nice.'

He looked over at the statue the man-thing had been working on. Remy frowned and stepped forward. 'Hey homme, my nose don't be _dat_ crooked.'

He examined the sculpting of his form with a critical eye coming to stand beside Ozymandias. The likeness was a good one, right down to the haircut. Remy didn't think he'd ever been sculpted before. Still this was not a good thing. He didn't want anyone knowing he'd been here and a six feet tall slab of solid stone with his face was a pretty big clue that everyone's favourite Cajun thief had been a-visiting.

'So, mon ami, dere a reason you do dis,' he waved a hand to incorporate all the statues surrounding them, 'all de live-long day?'

**I am Ozymandias cursed by En Sabah Nur to ever record his might and greatness. I am the blind witness for all eternity. **

Remy flicked his eyes over the statue. 'Right,' He rocked back on his heels again and fanned out a brace of cards, 'So long as dere a reason.' He glanced from the cards in his hands to the cards in the hands of his rock hewn counterpart.

He quirked his brows in surprised, finding that he was grudgingly impressed, 'Look at dat, mon ami; you even picked de right cards.'

**I am Ozymandias I have no choice but to see as only the blind can see.**

Remy ignored that particular bit of cryptic crap and instead paced around the chamber.

'Those who challenge the God-King shall know the depths of despair and languish upon the teeth of failure's rage,' he murmured to himself.

More than likely Cable and Domino were dealing with the reality behind that cryptic clue right this second; a reality that involved a potential thirty foot drop down to a spike-lined pit. By his reckoning he had about five minutes to get his business done here.

Something gold and shiny caught his eye and Remy ambled over to a pile of riches left abandoned in a corner of the chamber.

'Eh, what's dis den?'

He fingered a long chain of burnished hammered plate gold. The torque was heavy as only real gold could be. He ran it through his hands meditatively. He flexed the links and brushed his thumbs over the cool metal. Dollar signs and exchange rates danced through his mind. He shrugged off the pack from his back and tucked the chain away within in a hot second. Shaw wouldn't care if he helped himself to some spoils.

'You mind if'n I help myself, homme?' He asked Ozymandias over his shoulder as he eyed up a couple of big ass gold rings scattered on the floor like trash. He snatched them up and pocketed them.

Ozymandias continued to chip away at the statue. All in all, Remy decided as he continued his pilfering, it did not seem like much of an existence, spending eternity as a statue carving more statues. Oui, that didn't seem like any way to have fun.

**I cannot stop you. **Ozymandias replied.

'C'est Vrai,' Remy conceded honestly pulling the cards he had selected from the pack earlier from his sleeve. 'You can't.'

He twisted in his crouch as he pivoted and rose in one fluid, rapid, movement. His right arm swung out in a smooth arc as he loosed three cards straight at the statue-homme's back. Ozymandias did not stop chiselling even as the three brightly glowing cards whistled through the air and hit him dead centre in his back.

'Not'ing personal mon ami; dis is just business.'

Chips of stone exploded outward in a blistering, skin shredding spray as the cards hit. Remy dropped to the ground so his forehead brushed the stone floor and threw his arms over his head protectively. Pieces of debris rained down on him, pelting him like biting pellets and some even managed to cut through his uniform. He felt the hot trails of blood well up from the cuts.

Once the dust had settled Remy bounced to his feet, the rest of his hand of cards splayed between his fingers ready to be thrown just in case Ozymandias had more juice in him than seemed likely.

Clouds of choking dust hung in the air and clogged the back of Remy's throat as he waited tense and alert. Ozymandias' carved head lay on the ground a few feet from Remy's feet, red eyes still glowing. The body of the statue was in three or four large pieces across the room. The sculpture he had been working on, the copy of Remy himself, had been caught in the blast as well, precisely as Remy had intended.

He clucked his tongue. 'Ah oui, sometimes dere such a t'ing as too much o' a good t'ing. De world just ain't ready for dat much perfection.' He told the pieces of the Remy statue.

Stepping over the bits of Ozymandias carefully he moved closer and examined the broken masonry. Perfection was hard to destroy apparently because some of the chunks still bore the familiar mark of his face.

He crouched down and placed his hands over the largest lumps, letting his charge flow out into the stone through the thin fabric of his leather gloves. Stepping back swiftly he scooped up the head of Ozymandias and retreated to his waiting pack as the slow released bio-kinetic charge he had loosed through his hands ate away at the stone until nothing was left.

'Je suis desole, Monsieur,' he murmured to Ozymandias' head as he eased the lump of rock into his pack, 'Promise we find you a nice velvet pillow or somet'ing to sit on when we back in civilisation.'

Shouldering the now much heavier pack Remy pulled out Sek's map at the same time that he flipped on the communication unit.

'LeBeau status report?' Shaw did not sound any happier now than he had before and Remy belatedly remembered that he had said he would contact Shaw after the crossroads junction in the tunnels – which he hadn't done; oooops.

'We good to go, m'sieur,' Remy pulled out the tracking unit and noted that Cable was on his way. 'Gon set up our surprise for monsieur Cable an' den bail.'

'You have the item?' Remy rolled his eyes. He didn't know why Shaw was being deliberately vague; maybe it was some kind of bad guy code? Or maybe Shaw was just used to hiding behind deniability and believable liability clauses in his nine-to-five living. Perhaps after a while a homme just stopped being able to admit to anything when a body lived like that? Remy, who didn't give a damn about liability or deniability (or much of anything at all) anymore, chuckled lazily.

'Oui de head is in de bag.'

'Good, the chopper will be waiting for you at the designated rendezvous site in T-minus forty-five minutes.'

'Homme we ain't in an episode o' 24.' Remy rolled his eyes. 'What's de matter, you livin' out a G.I. Joe fantasy or somet'ing?'

'Shut up, LeBeau.'

Shaw cut the communication feed. Remy chuckled into the dust filled silence and then got to work. He pulled out another brace of cards. This part was going to take some concentration. He had to get the timing just right for monsieur Cable's warm welcome.

*****

Fifty eight minutes later, back in the chopper, Remy was once again fantasising about cigarettes when the pyramid of Akkaba blew its stack, sparking like a fuchsia neon top. Remy's lips quivered as he watched a millennia of ancient stone and world heritage flare up and paint the sky pink before spewing a mountain of rubble in all directions.

'How'd you like dem apples, Cable?'

Remy settled back in for the long flight back to civilisation and an equally long haul plane ride to the place where he now hung his metaphorical hat. Now that the fun was over he was back to being bone tired again.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep offering up a silent prayer to the God he hated and the Saints he suspected had no time for him anyhow, that this night, if only this night, he could sleep without dreaming.

_I am the blind witness for all eternity_ that was what Ozymandias had called himself, but he was wrong; he wasn't the Witness. There was only one Witness. There could only ever be one Witness. Remy squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, once more gritting his teeth against the whirring shudder of the chopper's flight.

Sleep was a long time in coming for Remy LeBeau and in his dreams, those hated dreams that never left him a moment's peace, he saw the face of his nightmares laughing at him. Time was running out; fate, tide and time wait for no man. The Apocalypse was nigh and deep down inside Remy knew he had only one chance, one choice, to make. He had to raise the Devil. It was time to bring M'sieur Essex back.

******

From the diaries of the late Irene Adler:

_And twelve shall rise only to fall; one man's dream and one man's salvation twinned in failure's ashes. A black King moves to claim that which he has lost and more beside as one Old King seeks to rise from oblivion within a cage of corrupted flesh. The blind shall lead and the fires burn; the future is known only to be feared. The dream a millstone upon the necks of those that once dared to hope. The untouchable in mortal peril and the vanguard of a new tomorrow hunted from the shadow; a reckoning and a resurrection born of darkness most foul shall usher in a new beginning to an old dance. All this I have seen, a fate written in tears; there shall be many to see but only one may live to Witness. The lord of lies and laughter, watch as he dances. _

_All this I have seen; from desert sands to caves of ice. I have seen the future and now my eyes are blind and my tears to dust do turn. Let these words be warning. I am Destiny and all this I have seen. _

_Twelve shall rise but many more shall fall. The devil dances and the Apocalypse cometh. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter One: **

_The Untouchable in mortal peril……_

The plasma fire blast struck Rogue directly to the solar plexus and she was shocked to realise that she felt the burn as the impact of the blast knocked her from the sky and into the rubble of a fallen building.

'Alright sugar, now ya gone and made me mad.' Shaking bricks and mortar dust off of her tattered and torn uniform Rogue leapt to her feet and rose into the air. She faced off against her attacker. 'Ya got a name, hon; or shall ah just write "loser" on your tombstone?'

'You cannot kill me Rogue,' The man dressed all in black like an extra from a post modern cowboy movie, complete with mantled leather trench coat, strode forward toting a simply huge broadsword as if the five foot long blade weighed no more than the average toothpick.

'Still I will grant you my name: I am Vargas. I am your death X-Man.'

Rogue narrowed her eyes as the two identi-kit blonde bodyguards approached. It had been one of these two that had blasted her out of the sky. The sidekicks, one woman and one man, moved in to flank this "Vargas"; the woman raised and pointed her plasma rifle. The man, who could have been the woman's brother, had a face like a slapped ass and cracked his huge knuckles loudly. Rogue brushed her white bangs from her face and smiled.

'Sugar if ah had a nickel for every time ah've heard that one,' she shook her head condescendingly and then, with blinding speed, shot through the air towards Ms. Goldilocks.

She heard the whistle of air as the dark clad Vargas twisted and slashed with the blade of his sword, but Rogue was too fast for him and the blade cut nothing more than air. Ms. Goldilocks fired her gun, aimed straight for Rogue's face. Rogue altered her trajectory, curved around the blast, twisted, and caught Ms Goldilocks from behind in an arm lock.

'Three against one,' she clucked her tongue, 'ah don't know if ah should be flattered or insulted. What is this, amateur night?' Rogue pivoted smoothly and half shoved and half threw the blonde women toward her brother, snatching up the woman's weapon as she did so. The two bimbos collided in a mass of overly-muscular limbs and bottle-blonde hair.

Vargas closed in on her; Rogue pivoted and again, lifted the plasma blaster, and fired. Vargas didn't even bother to duck; he raised his blade diagonally across his body and deflected the blast. Inevitably some of the power struck him anyhow, but it didn't slow him down any. Vargas whipped his sword through the air in an upward arc; the sword sliced the plasma rifle in half. Rogue swung her fist and Vargas caught her wrist, pinning her arm. Rogue's eyes went wide. She couldn't break free.

'I am your death, mutant; you cannot defeat me.' Vargas began to bear down on her, using her trapped arm as leverage. Rogue stared into his dark eyes and blandly handsome Mediterranean features.

'Sugar,' she smiled through gritted teeth, 'Ah'm an X-Man; we defy death all the live long day.'

She swung her other fist and managed to catch Vargas a hard blow across the jaw. He staggered and let go of her right arm. Rogue leapt into the air and ploughed both fists into the man's gut, sending them both crashing through the wall of one of the many derelict buildings here on the south quay of Madripoor's low town.

When she came to a halt Vargas was sprawled across the detritus of old fish crates and packing cases. His dark hair fell about him like an inky cloud and his sword lay feet from easy reach. Rogue dropped down onto her feet and blew on her fists.

'Toldja so,' she grinned and then, before she could enjoy her victory a moment longer a volley of high powered plasma blasts struck her in the back and sent her ricocheting into a tower of wooden crates.

Rogue did not have time to pick herself up before a large hand had curled around the back of her neck and wrenched her upright by the scruff. Rogue came up swinging and managed to knock Mr. Goldilocks into (and through) the far wall of the old warehouse. It was then that Ms. Goldilocks whipped out some kind of taser-like weapon. Rogue choked on a scream as some form of energy, far more insidious than electricity, seared through her body.

As her body twitched and went into painful spasm's Rogue somehow found her feet. Squinting through the white heat aftershock images eating away her vision Rogue launched herself upward towards the ceiling. The taser attachments tore free of her clothes as she rose up and Ms. Goldilocks started shooting at her again with an itsy-bitsy version of the plasma rifle Rogue had snatched from her earlier.

'Honey ah'm getting' mighty tired o' this.' Rogue smashed her fist through one of the wooden ceiling joists shattering the warped and termite eroded wood in a shower of damp splinters. The corrugated iron roof shuddered as one of the support braces collapsed downwards on top of the blonde woman.

'Time ta go Samson on y'all's asses.' Rogue smashed her fists through more of the ceiling support beams, using all her strength to shatter the walls while she was at it; demolition had always been her speciality. In less than a minute the ceiling caved in with a creaking roar right on top of the dazed Vargas and his squished blonde bimbo side-kick.

'Nya-nya-na-nya-na,' Rogue zoomed upward through a punched out hole in the ceiling and stopped about twelve feet above the collapsing building to watch her handiwork. She grinned savagely. 'How'd ya like them apples, huh Vargas?' She crowed.

Still feeling rather pleased with herself Rogue almost jumped out of her skin when her comm. badge activated, 'Rogue; report Rogue.'

Fumbling to activate the comm. Rogue decided that gloating could wait until she was someplace a little nicer than here. She started to fly even as she answered the hail. 'Ah'm here Storm.'

'Rogue I have been trying to reach you for over fifteen minutes,' Storm sounded just slightly peeved over the crackle of the comm. transmission, 'Did something happen?'

Rogue snorted as she started her flight back across the harbour, 'Ya could say that, Storm. Ah'll tell ya about when ah'm back.' She deactivated the comm. before Storm could say anything more.

The moon was huge, bulbous, and faintly yellow as it hung, pregnant and sick looking, over the ramshackle squalor of Madripoor's impoverished quayside and harbour. Rogue flew off-shore a little to get away from the stench of decomposing fish and sewage that hung over the rabbit warren alleys of Madripoor's main shanty town. In the thick darkness that seemed to seep into every contour of low town Rogue could see the soft winking glow of the occasional open cooking fire; each flicker of orange-gold light made her thick of demons looking up at her from the open pits of hell.

Rogue had grown up in Mississippi, she knew what poverty looked like, but the people of low town knew a whole different level of misery to anything she had ever known. There was something kind of exhausting about thinking on it too long; it made Rogue wonder if the X-men could actually make a difference in the world when people still lived like this, here, in the twenty-first century.

Sighing deep to her soul Rogue angled her flight to take her back inland as she followed the natural curvature of the shoreline; rising up like a mirage the sky scrapers of Madripoor's uptown shimmered into view. As modern and pretty under the moonlight as low town was ugly, Rogue didn't like the rich part of the island any more than the poor. She liked it less even, and she couldn't wait until she and the rest of the team could go on home.

Rogue could only hope Storm and the others had had better luck searching out the missing volume of Destiny's diary than she had.

* * *

_The Lord of Lies and Laughter – watch as he dances……_

The sound of a phone ringing woke Remy LeBeau. His eyes popped open and he had a moment, no longer than a split second, of total confusion wondering what the hell that ringing noise was, then he muttered a half-hearted curse and rolled over in his kingsized bed to snatch his cell phone from the bedside table.

'Dis better be good,' he growled down the phone, propped up on one elbow, phone in one hand. He blinked blearily and stared without seeing at the window across the room; shafts of silvered moonlight slanted in through the partially closed curtains to tremble over the floor.

'Remy?' A male voice, thrumming with nervous over a bad connection popped with static into Remy's ear, 'it's Jake – um, we might have a problem.'

Remy thought about hanging up right then and there but some impulse of charity kept him from doing so. He scrubbed at his eyes and thought about how to play this one. The radio alarm clock on the table blinked neon numbers at him almost mockingly; 3:45am and he'd only gone to bed at one.

'Problem mon ami?' He purred roughly, voice still hoarse from interrupted sleep. 'Non, don' t'ink so; de only problem I got is dis annoying lil' weasel dat ring me up at 3:45 in de freakin' mornin'.'

There was a long pause filled with popping static, 'Er…..right, about that,' Jake chuckled nervously over the phone, 'Sorry I forgot about the time difference where you are.'

Remy scowled, 'Good night Jake,' he pulled the phone from his ear and had his finger poised to disconnect the call and switch the phone off when Jake piped up again.

'Wait – wait!'

Remy took a cleansing breath and put the phone back to his ear, 'Five seconds; you got five seconds, homme.'

Jake didn't waste any time after that, 'The Slap Head is calling.'

Remy blinked and then, because his brain was still stalled he blinked again, 'Pardon?'

Jake snorted down the phone, 'Remy come on, what's the point of having code words if you can't remember what they mean? I mean, jeez, I finally get to use one and you don't get it. I want you to know that I am seriously disappointed with you, mister hot-shot international master thief and former mutant vigilante freedom fighter.'

Remy closed his eyes. 'Jake,' he said patiently, 'De X-Men don' use code words; mostly because dey ain't dat dumb. Now what de hell do you want?'

Jake sighed, 'Xavier; I was referring to Xavier.'

Remy frowned, pushing himself up against the headboard and into a sitting position, 'What about him?'

'He's looking for you again – and word is, he's not the only one.'

A soft whisper of tension burned away the last of his sleep haze and abruptly Remy was completely awake, 'Who else?'

'You're going to love this one,' Jake said and it was almost possible to see the nervous grin as it coloured his words, 'One of our mutual sources told me that Mystique has a real hard on to find you.'

Remy froze for a half second as his brain tried to make sense of this and ignore the unfortunate connotations arising from Jake's bad, bad choice of words. Getting his thoughts in order Remy cleared his throat awkwardly, 'Mystique; Rogue's mama? What she want?'

'Beats me,' Jake said easily, 'Look, so far Xavier is busy looking in all the wrong places and Mystique hasn't even started to really look for you yet – I just thought you should know.' There was a pause over the line. 'You know what the old man's policy is, Remy. You're an asset to the company but Jacob Gavin Courier's International…..'

'Is run by a couple of Grade A cowards,' Remy finished for him dryly, 'Oui, I know dat.'

'Look,' Jake said not particularly offended at being called a coward, 'There are some people born to wear brightly coloured spandex and prance around saving the world and there are others, like yours truly, who were put on this Earth to exploit those other people and turn a tidy profit while they're at it.' Jake was grinning again, Remy could hear it, 'I didn't make the rules; I just obey them.'

Remy tried not to let Jake hear his own grin in his voice, 'D'accord, mebbe I need to switch sides, eh; wouldn't mind doin' de exploitin' for a change.'

'You wouldn't last a day,' Jake told him confidently, 'trust me. It's that altruism disease; once you're infected you just can't help flinging yourself in harm's way to save the world. And, buddy, you're a terminal case.'

Remy couldn't help it, he chuckled. 'Terminally stupid more like,' he said in aside and then, before Jake could agree with that statement, he spoke again. 'Okay, t'anks for de heads up, Jake. You do what you got to do.' He paused a moment. 'You got any idea what Xavier be wantin; figured he gave up on me over a year ago.'

'Not a clue.' Jake replied cheerfully. 'Do you suppose Cable could have sensed you back in Akkaba; maybe you left some kind of clue behind?'

Remy frowned. When he spoke he was very serious. 'Mon ami, I like you, so I'm gon pretend you didn't jus' question my professional ability.' There was a pause before Remy continued. 'I didn't leave no clues, but even if Cable somehow did find out I'm de one dat stole Ozymandias away from him dat homme ain't gon go cryin' to de X-Men, he'd come for me hisself.'

'Yeah; what would happen then?' Jake asked curiously. Remy almost smiled; despite being an avowed and proud coward Jacob Gavin Jnr was still fascinated by the spandex set.

'Let's jus' say dat you papa gon have to find him another thief to do dat Latvia job next month, d'accord?' Remy replied dryly.

Jake was a silent for a heartbeat before squeaking out, 'You think he'd kill you? He's that tough?'

Remy was vaguely flattered that Jake thought killing him would be a tough ask, but he didn't bother to preen. After all, la petite Jubilee could take Jake on and kick his ass six ways from Sunday with one hand tied behind her back so it wasn't like Jake's assessment amounted to much.

'Homme,' Remy began again with strained patience, 'Cable was born an' bred to kill Apocalypse; de homme is gon wipe de floor wit' me in a fair fight.'

'Um, okay,' Jake said diffidently, 'So why did you go out of your way to screw him over then?'

Remy rolled his eyes. 'Because I don' fight fair, mon ami,' He explained simply. 'An' if t'ings go de way I planned den by de time de baby Summers' knows what's really goin on he ain't gon be able to do a t'ing to stop it anyhow.'

'So you want me to keep tabs on Xavier and Mystique?' Jake asked him. 'Unofficially, I mean.'

Remy paused to consider for a moment. He thought about it hard. He knew Xavier had tried to find him more than once since the X-Men had broken him free of Bastion's control, and the homme had regained his powers. Remy had always made sure that Xavier found nothing more than dead ends and fruitless rumour, no matter who he bribed. He had thought that le professeur had finally given up on him, and the information he possessed, after the last expensively futile search. What could have made Xavier try again now? Could he know something? Then there was Mystique; Remy couldn't even guess at what that femme wanted with him.

Things were happening; he could feel it. He'd spun the wheel when he agreed to work with Shaw and Akkaba had just been the icing on the cake – the first domino to be toppled - and now the chain-reaction had begun. Remy chewed on his lip hard; deep down inside a warm fission of excitement bubbled. The game was on.

'Non,' he said finally, 'keep your head down Jake. Xavier might not be able to track you but Mystique's a whole 'nother ballgame. Jus' let de cards fall as dey may.'

'You're not worried about the X-men finding out you're in league with one of their enemies?'

Remy paused; he ran that thought through his mind. Did he care if the X-Men found out he was on Shaw's payroll; would it bother him if Scottie and le Professeur found out he'd deliberately set Cable up?

'No,' Remy said quietly, 'I ain't worried about de X-Men.'

In fact, he realised with some surprise, he really didn't care about them one way or the other. He felt like he should feel guilty about that, but he just wasn't. It wasn't like he wanted anything bad to happen to the team, but he wasn't interested in what they thought about him either. That time in his life was over. Remy could feel almost bad about that; he could regret the fact that he had failed as an X-Man in the same way he had failed the Guild – but even that pain was distant.

'If'n de X-Men stupid enough to get involved in dis _now_ den dere be not'ing I can do to stop it. Mon Dieu, dey already involved, they just don' know it yet.'

'Okay,' Jake breathed slowly, 'And Mystique?'

Remy pursed his lips, 'Guess I'm jus' gon have to dodge dat bullet when I come to it, non?'

'You think she's out to kill you?' Jake sounded worried, which was nice, Remy supposed, though it didn't do him much practical good. He shrugged his shoulders against the upholstered headboard.

'Don' seem likely she gon track me down jus' to buy me dinner,' he pointed out reasonably. 'Mebbe she want to get even over me screwin' her daughter's head up. Rogue tol' me she could be over-protective.'

'And she's only doing that now? Two years after you walked out on Rogue?' Jake didn't sound convinced, 'That's not over-protectiveness Remy; that's just nuts.'

Remy's lips quivered and he shrugged again, 'Comme ce, comme ca.'

'Yeah okay, keep your secrets,' Jake huffed. 'I'll see you around, Remy, unless Mystique sees you first.' He hung up.

Remy tossed the cell phone onto the bedside table and then sat against the headboard and stared sightless across the room to the back wall. He knew he wasn't going to get back to sleep now. He focused his eyes on a framed print of some kind of cityscape painting done in poorly replicated impressionist style; the picture was typical hotel fare – bland and uninspired.

'Dieu,' pulling back the puffy down filled coverlet from the bed Remy swung his legs over the side and leaned his elbows against his knees before raking his fingers through his thick mop of coarse and unruly hair. Getting up he padded bare-foot across the room to the window. Standing beside the wall to the side (so his shadow didn't appear against the curtains like a target for any loitering snipers) Remy used one finger to flick back the edge of the curtain.

Macquerie Street, Sydney, was fairly quiet given the time of night and from his luxury suite of rooms in the Hotel Intercontinental Remy had a good view of the sky scrapers and glittering lights of the city. He watched the night for a little while, not really thinking of anything in particular.

The AC system in the suite kept the room at morgue chill constantly and after a while gooseflesh crept up over his bare body. Stretching idly as he stepped away from the window Remy wandered over to the en-suite bathroom; he'd take a shower and then he'd get an early start on his day. He had the feeling he was going to need all the advantages he could get.

* * *

_A Black King moves to claim……_

Sebastian Shaw leaned back in his large burgundy leather swivel chair and swirled the brandy in his glass, appreciating the deep reddish gold colour of the liquor under the lights of his office. A lively piece of Chopin played accompaniment to his sense of self-satisfaction.

'Sir, are you sure this course of action is wise?' Standing at his right hand and slightly behind him Tessa remained expressionless, emotionless, as she expressed her doubts.

'Yes,' Shaw replied easily. He was not a man given to second guessing himself and he did not appreciate the trait in his underlings either; Tessa being the one exception, and then only rarely. There was a tiny moment's silence as Tessa considered her employer's tone, mannerisms, and general mood before continuing.

'Projected outcomes from this course of action do not appear to reap sufficient reward to suggest this venture will be a success by your usual standards, sir.'

Shaw almost smiled, rocking back in his chair. 'Projection is merely soothsaying, Tessa, and I care nothing for mere conjecture. I have every confidence that this venture shall reap rewards far greater than anything you could calculate, my dear.'

'Why?' Tessa asked him boldly.

Shaw sipped from his brandy before rising from his chair and striding across the wide expanse of his sky rise office in one of the more expensive buildings along Sydney's George Street. He looked out of his solid wall of window glass out to the Queen Victoria Building opposite; the shopping Mecca was currently quiet, but in a few hours the entire street would be heaving with tourists and fools eager to fritter away their meagre funds.

'Because this is not just another hostile takeover,' Shaw told Tessa. 'This is not just some poorly run and debt riddled conglomerate I can absorb, dismantle, and rebuild as I see fit. This is something far greater than that.' He turned from the window to face Tessa, downing the last of his brandy, 'This about a far greater power.'

'The Black Womb Legacy,' it wasn't a question and despite the flat elucidation Shaw thought he detected something like disapproval in his assistant's manner. He watched her with the leonine indifference of a cat examining a mouse as he crossed the floor to his wet bar.

'My father once worked with Doctor Milbury within the Almogordo research facility,' Shaw curled his lip as the wards evoked the memory of his loathed father. 'I have all but pieced together the clues to what he and Sinister did there. I just lack that last piece of the puzzle.' He poured himself another drink.

'And you believe LeBeau can provide you with this piece?' Tessa frowned. 'Sir, you did read the psychological assessment of the thief you asked me to undertake for you, didn't you?'

'Yes,' Shaw did smile then as he plunked some ice into his glass, 'LeBeau's emotional instability does not concern me. It simply makes him easier to control.' He looked over at Tessa, 'and you are wrong my dear; I don't believe that LeBeau can provide that last piece of Sinister's puzzle,' Shaw smiled wide, like a lion yawning in the savannah heat. 'I believe LeBeau_ is _the last piece of the puzzle, and the key to unlocking the Garden.'

'LeBeau is unpredictable,' Tessa pointed out as she remained motionless, standing beside Shaw's vacated chair, 'He can be highly volatile; it is impossible to predict how he will retaliate if you betray him.'

'Which is why I have no desire to cross him,' Shaw swallowed down his shot, 'LeBeau is a thief and I am a capitalist; we understand each other. He is using me and I am using him. This is how business works.'

'And the X-Men; what you do will bring you into conflict with them; Cyclops will not stand by as you use his son.'

Shaw looked over at Tessa sharply, 'And you seem surprisingly concerned about what the X-men will do.' He walked towards his adherent, knowing that he cut an imposing and physically impressive figure, 'Is there something you would like to tell me, my dear?' he purred darkly.

The first flicker of genuine emotion rippled his aide's composure. She dropped her head and averted her gaze, 'No sir. I simply worry; you are taking a great many risks by involving yourself in this…..business.'

Shaw watched Tessa for a moment and then used one finger to tilt up her chin, looking down into her empty face. He smiled without warmth or sincerity.

'Nothing ventured, nothing gained, my dear. A man does not become king by playing safe.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Two:**

**The Past: January 2010**

The woman known only as Nak Nak looked up from her embroidering and out of the small window of her room in one of Madripoor's less salubrious neighbourhoods. She blinked once and rose silently from her cushion on the floor. Bare foot she padded across the small room to her front door. She opened the door before her visitor could finish knocking.

A tall man, a westerner, with a wild mop of brown hair, haunted burning eyes and a face grown jaunt and wane under a week's worth of beard growth stared down at her. The man's trench coat hung open and he smelled bad, like a month's worth of unlaundered clothing. The man blinked his eyes, struggling to focus when he saw Nak Nak and, with a ramshackle grace, dropped onto his knees on her doorstep.

'I need your help.' The man said, his Mandarin was rusty from lack of use but otherwise very serviceable for an American. He bowed his head and did not look at her, just continued to kneel at her feet like a penitent come to beg alms and forgiveness.

Nak Nak rolled her eyes, reached forward, and cuffed the scruffy man around the back of the head, 'Stupid thief.' She turned from the door and wandered back into her small little two room home. 'I make the tea you go wash.' She commanded as the man rose to his feet and scuttled in after her.

Something like five minutes later Nak Nak was just finishing pouring the tea when the thief stepped out of her tiny bathroom. He had washed his face and attempted to finger comb the straggles of his hair back from his face. Now, with the dried sweat and road dust no longer darkening his skin, Nak Nak could clearly see an odd almost diamond shaped scar puckering the flesh of his forehead. She stared at the mark for a long moment. The thief ducked his head and shook his hair back into his face when he realised what she was staring at; shame writ large in the gesture.

'The red eyed devil-doctor.' Nak Nak gestured for the thief to be seated on the floor opposite her on the other side of her tiny table. 'He is gone now?'

'Yes. He is gone now.' The thief moved stiffly as he folded his lanky form and settled on the floor. His hands shook as his eyes skipped over the contours of her tiny main room, which served as bedroom, living room, and kitchen-dining room combined. After a moment the thief finally met Nak Nak's eyes again and the faintest flicker of amusement touched his pinched features.

'Hello Kitty?' he nodded his head to her pink and yellow tea set and matching table cloth, then his eyes danced over the Hello Kitty bedspread and the stuffed toy perched on the shelf in the corner of the room. The thief's lips flexed at the edges as he fought not to smile.

Nak Nak narrowed her eyes, 'I like Hello Kitty; it is very cheerful.' She told him in English. Her hand moved to the hair slides keeping the liquid fall of her dark hair back. The slides were also emblazoned with the eponymous pink ribbon wearing white kitty.

'Oui, it definitely somet'ing alright,' the thief's English was touched by an accent that was as pleasant as it was peculiar. The man reached out for his cup of tea, clasping it in shaking palms and sipped. Nak Nak watched as the cup trembled in his long fingered hand. She sipped from her own cup.

_There are holes in the shields I built you. _Reaching out to touch the tornado that was the thief's mind Nak Nak felt many raw and aching wounds, some fresh and some old and recently reopened. She could feel a new pestilence festering in those weeping psychic wounds.

'Oui,' he agreed quietly. He looked up at her eyes wide and scared and somewhat unfocused. 'I can't keep it all in, cherie. The levees burst and I think I'm drowning.'

Nak Nak frowned and extended her senses a little further; she did not meet with resistance. The thief had let her into his personal torment before, years ago, when his estranged father, the great American Guild Patriarch Jean-Luc LeBeau had sent his adopted son to madripoor to heal after a terrible tragedy. Nak Nak had nursed the thief then, when the nightmares of a massacre in deep tunnels had threatened to destroy his mind completely.

Back then she had found a broken, twisted and desperate soul half buried under the weight of his guilt. A jaded babe in a savage wood, the thief she had first met years ago had already blundered into villainy and lost most of his soul as the price for his stupidity. Yet Nak Nak had seen potential in that accidental villain; the soul he had left in him then had been a joyous fertile place just aching for the chance to grow and blossom. She had helped that soul find hope and new purpose and she had sent him out in the world to find his own redemption.

_Thief what have you done; what new poison is this? _

The mind and soul revealed to Nak Nak's gentle probing today was not much like that soul she had excavated from despair all those years ago. That jaded, lonely and bitterly angry youth's soul had been as callow and fragile as spun glass. The soul that bled from numerous deep and vital wounds now was something heavier than lead and deeper than Everest was high. The mind that struggled to tolerate her presence within his thoughts was not paralysed by his own failings any longer. No, the thief had won the battle of self-acceptance and fought his own demons to a standstill. Her stupid thief had found his validation and realised the shortcomings of redemption. He knew the pain of victory and now the reluctant villain, who had been made cats-paw to evil far greater than his own, was gone. The man who faced Nak Nak now was no ones tool. Yet whether he was villain still remained a mystery. There was much darkness, rich and thick, within the deep hollows of his mind.

'I don' know what to do,' the thief told her, 'Essex is gone; I din't want him dead but now he is. Wit'out Essex I don't know how to stop _Him_. I can _feel_ Him. I c'n feel Him in my head. He's worse den Essex ever was. Essex I could fight.' Red eyes blinked up at Nak Nak, 'Help me cherie, help me build my walls again. I'm not ready to become Him yet. I don' want to be dat monster.'

Nak Nak stared at her stupid thief, her favourite pet and her most successful restoration project. She shook her head sadly. 'I can't.'

'But….' The thief stared at her.

Nak Nak looked down into the dregs of her tea cup, 'I am sorry, my friend. There is nothing I can do. There are no walls or shields I can build for you that will suffice.'

The thief bowed his head, eyes closed as his marred hand, traced in faint white healing scars from fingertip to wrist, rose to scratch distractedly at the diamond brand gouged into his forehead.

'Ev'ryday it get worse, cherie.' He whispered. 'Ev'ryday I forget a little more; ev'ryday it gets harder and harder to remember who I am; who I want to be.' That scarred hand pressed against his eyes and his hair fell forward to obscure his face. 'He's eatin' me alive, Nak; eatin' me from the inside out.'

'I'm sorry,' Nak Nak told him again. 'I can't stop what is happening to you. Only you can do that.' She reached out to touch his shoulder and the exhausted thief looked up and met her eyes. 'The only one who can stop _you _is you.'

The thief turned away from her eyes. He closed his eyes, face pale and drawn in exquisite pain. The diamond brand upon his brow turned from scar tissue white to a deep, cinder hot red. The thief started to laugh, a harsh, broken, cackling sound. There was madness like poison in that laugh.

'Den it's over,' he said when the laughter finally subsided. 'It's done.'

'Just because we cannot win does not mean we stop fighting.' Nak Nak told her thief while the echoes of his despair still cackled through her mind. She knew what he feared and she knew the fear was justified. She also knew that what he feared was unavoidable. Some people were born with the luxury of righteousness but others knew only the burden of villainy. Where good men must fail, bad men must rise to do what the good fear to do.

Her thief looked at her with tired eyes as he rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Fight?' He asked lips curving up into a macabre smirk. 'Oh mais oui, I'll fight cherie. Dat way when I lose it be all the more painful, non?'

He laughed again. Nak Nak watched as he stumbled toward her front door, fumbled with the deadbolt and then wrenched open the warped wood. 'Au revoir Nak Nak,' He spoke without turning around. 'De next time we meet I'm probably gon be crazy, so I'll say dis now: it been nice knowin' you, cherie.'

Nak Nak began to clean up the tea set, 'Goodbye stupid thief.'

She watched the door close behind him and did not move until she could no longer sense the heavy bass drum throb of his mind in the vicinity. Ignoring the tea set Nak Nak rose from the table and padded across her tiny room to the small, dented metal box safe hidden under her bed.

Twirling the tumblers one after the other Nak Nak removed from the safe the old, leather bound volume. The book had no title on either the spine or the front cover and the pages within were creased with water damage and crinkled yellow with age. Nak Nak held the old diary volume in both hands and stared pensively down at the closed book for a long moment.

'We must never stop fighting,' she whispered, 'Tomorrow must not gain dominion over the present.'

A moment's rooting about in the small drawers of her bedside cabinet resulted in Nak Nak finding a page of Hello Kitty stationary paper and matching gift wrapping. Picking up the Hello Kitty pen that completed this matching set Nak Nak wrote a few lines onto the page, tucked it between the covers of the diary, and then bound the volume up in lurid pink gift wrap paper.

Carefully she addressed the package: _To Professor Charles Francis Xavier, Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York……_

It was only a small thing; in the grand scheme of things it would not change much, but not much was better than nothing. Nak Nak smiled. If this was to be an end, or even a new beginning, it should not occur in an ordered fashion, but in chaos and strife and confusion; such was life and such was death. Nak Nak would sow the wind so that others might reap the whirlwind.

The next day she posted the parcel by airmail, thus firing the first shot in a war that would herald the Apocalypse.

* * *

**2011**

Sekhmet Conway woke abruptly in the dead of night; her eyes blinked up at her ceiling. Blackness hung over the room and flashing motes of grey danced about her eyes as she tried to make out the contours of the room through the darkness. All the small hairs on her body stood up on end; she knew that someone was in the room with her. Her heart lodged like a rock in her throat. Sek turned her head fractionally to look towards the window.

'Oh Jesus Christ!' There was a figure curled up like a restful cat on her window seat. The pinpoints of red eye-shine glowed dully in the darkness. She could imagine the smirk that accompanied the voice as it rolled through the room.

'Non, not quite.'

Sek groaned and dragged herself upright in bed, scraping her thick dark hair from her face and trying to pretend she wasn't almost hiccupping with relief. The figure uncoiled from the window seat and flopped down across the end of her bed. He covered his eyes with one hand as Sek snapped on her bedside faux tiffany lamp.

'I changed the locks on the doors and the windows, and I bought a new security system, yet _you_ still managed to break in.' Sek folded her arms over her chest. 'You don't call, you don't write and then you turn up in my bedroom at night like a peeping tom. Has anyone ever told you that you have a weird way of trying to impress a girl?'

Remy just grinned at her pulling his arm from his face and propping himself up on his elbows. 'You up for an adventure, cherie?' he asked her smoothly ignoring the dig. His smile quivered about his mouth and Sek felt her own smile rising on her face.

'Is this the sort of adventure full of explosions, legally questionable activities and the chance to see exotic locales?'

'Oui.'

'And is there a chance we could end up arrested or dead?'

Remy arched an eyebrow, 'Sek, almos' everyt'ing I do could get me arrested or dead.'

Sek grinned, 'When do we leave?'

'Soon as you got some clothes on, cherie.' Remy rose from the end of the bed, stretching slightly just like a cat.

Sek pouted. Obviously this wasn't going to be an adventure that started in the bedroom. Or at least, didn't involve any adventurous mutual exploration in her bedroom. Remy had already moved to her bedroom door but he turned to frown quizzically at her when she remained sat in her bed under a mound of blankets.

'You comin'?'

Sek's mind immediately sank into the gutters but she resisted making any smart comments, not because Remy wouldn't play along with them, but because she was tired of innuendo that went nowhere. Remy was a tease, she knew that, but he was also fundamentally uninterested in being anything other than a friend. The fact that she couldn't just write his lack of interest off as loyalty to his mutant girlfriend anymore was actually kind of depressing.

'Fine,' she muttered. 'I'm moving already. You really shouldn't expect a girl to be at her best at four in the freaking morning, you know.'

'Non?' Remy flashed a quick scoundrel's grin her way. 'Dat ain't been my experience; known some femmes dat at dere best in de night.'

'Oh just get lost before I decide not to help you,' Sek glowered and made shooing motions with her hands.

Remy winked at her and slipped out the door without further comment. Ten minutes later Sek was dressed in her usual tomb raider-esque ensemble of khaki pants, v-neck t-shirt and safari jacket. She tied her loosely curling hair back at the nape of the neck and dragged her travelling pack from her closet.

'Do I need to pack for a long trip?' she called loud enough to be heard from the other room as she bent over to rummage in her closet.

'Week to ten days mebbe,' Remy's voice came from the vicinity of her bed. Sek whipped around, heart lurching once more to find that somehow Remy had managed to sneak back into her bedroom and settle onto her bed without her noticing. He watched her with amused eyes for a second. Sek glared.

'You're just like a big kid.' She told him but couldn't hold onto her mock stern expression. Remy slipped off the bed and helped her pull out her pack.

'Jus' take de essentials,' he told her as she moved around her bedroom gathering clothes and other items, 'Anyt'ing else you need we can pick up on de road.'

Sek paused with a collection of toiletries in her arms, 'Road trip?'

Remy just shrugged, 'Your papa gon need you for anyt'ing in de near future?'

Sek shook her head, 'I'm not working on anything for Elysium at the moment.' She shrugged. 'I'll take my laptop with me; daddy can email me if he wants something.' She paused and arched her brows, 'Unless we're going somewhere without email access?'

Remy smiled faintly, 'Non you'll have access.' He started to help her pack. He stopped her before she could pack her passport.

'You don' need dat.' He frowned. 'Act'lly get rid o' all your cards in your purse, an' anyt'ing else wit' your name on it.'

A fission of excitement zinged through Sek's body from her head to her toes. 'Fake I.D.'s?'

Remy pulled a manila wallet from inside his coat and handed it over to her, 'Get you a disguise if'n you want one too.' He grinned.

Sek seized the envelope and ripped into it with the enthusiasm of a leopard tearing into the fleshy underbelly of a gazelle. A number of credit cards, a driver's licence, and a false passport spilled from the vivisected envelope. She flipped open the passport.

'Sequoia Carmicheal?' She gave him a long look. 'You named me for a tree?'

He shrugged looking a little abashed, 'It sounded close enough to your name dat you gon remember it.' His grin returned, 'Plus if'n I call you "Sek" no one gon be confused by dat. Keepin' t'ings simple be de best way to go.'

Sek decided that was probably a plausible answer. It would be better if her fake identity wasn't too elaborate as she wasn't used to this furtive international fugitive lifestyle that was Remy's bread and butter.

'So do I have an exciting back story to remember or anything?' She asked after a moment, girlish James Bond fantasies flitting through her head.

'Non,' Remy told her oblivious as he just crushed her nascent super spy dreams dead in their tracks. 'De paperwork's jus' insurance for if'n we get stopped or got to go through any security checks or border controls.'

Sek made a note of that. Clearly there was some travelling in her future. She reached out for her rucksack but Remy took it and slung it over one shoulder before her hand could close around the strap.

She gave him a look, 'Such a gentleman.'

'I try, cherie.' He strode across her bedroom in two large bounds and opened her door for her. He gave a flourishing bow and gestured for her to precede him out of the door. Sek decided to take the high road and just enjoy the chivalry.

Remy led her out of her apartment building and towards the communal carport. A vintage Rolls, black as midnight, waited at the back of the covered parking garage in a pool of darkest shadow. Remy fished his keys out of one of his many pockets and deactivated the alarm.

Sek eyed the big vintage beast before her with a critical eye, 'Bit of a departure from the Harley.'

'Oui,' Remy grinned brightly, 'I don' like to be typecast.'

'Right,' Sek flapped her hand, 'And a car like that isn't going to attract any unwanted attention or anything?' she moved cautiously towards the car. She continued to eye the vehicle with extreme scepticism.

'I thought only the Queen of England rode around in one of these things now a-days?'

Remy had already stowed her laptop into the boot of the car. He arched his brows over the roof at her. 'Not'ing wrong wit' bein' compared to royalty. Plus you assumin' I don' be wantin' attention.'

'Right, because you've been Mister Attention Whore recently, what with hiding out God knows where and trying to convince almost everyone who knows you that you'd fallen into a black hole.' Sek rose up on tip toes so she could frown at Remy over the top of the car. 'Until you emailed me six months ago I'd pretty much given you up for dead.'

Remy had the grace to wince as he shrugged, 'Been busy, cherie. Dat's all.' Remy opened the driver's side back passenger door. Sek decided to drop the subject. She cast about for a new one.

'So am I going to get to see the batcave?'

'Batcave?' Remy dropped her pack into the backseat as Sek slid into the front passenger seat. She sank gratefully into the luxurious leather upholstered bucket seat as Remy squeezed into the driver's side.

'Uh-huh, you know like Batman's secret lair?' She grinned at him. 'Do I get to see where you cook up your super heists and stuff?' She fastened her seatbelt as Remy adjusted the rear view mirror.

'Not right away, cherie. We gon be stayin in de US for a bit.'

'Ha!' Sek grinned hugely and Remy turned to give her a sceptical look. 'I knew you were working out of the country.' She turned to him as Remy started the car and pulled out of the garage. 'So do I get twenty guesses as to where you're laired up?'

He flicked his eyes sideways to glance at her. 'If'n you want.'

The tone of his voice suggested he couldn't figure out why she'd care, but then Remy was so blasé about the life he led as a international master thief and sometime vigilante super hero, it drove Sek, who would have loved to be either a master thief or a super hero if only for a day, to distraction.

'Hm,' Sek paused, thinking as she considered the walnut finished panelling on the dashboard. 'Somewhere warm,' she began meditatively, 'because you like to soak up the rays. Somewhere English speaking because you can confuse people by pretending to be French or something.' Her voice rose and she began to speak faster as her mind started shaking off the effects of a very early wake up call and started working hard on the mystery, 'And somewhere that you don't have any obvious association with; you trying to be incognito. You don't want old friends or enemies showing up whenever they want.' She glanced at him. 'How am I doing so far, hot or cold?'

Remy managed a faint, luke warm smile, 'Pretty warm, cherie.'

'Okay,' Sek sing-songed happily. 'I'm going to exclude Europe because there are too many places that I might expect you to go, like Monaco or Marseilles. It rains too much in Britain and you'd stand out too much as either an American or a Frenchmen anyway.' She grew quiet, brow crinkling in deep thought.

Remy grinned even as he continued to navigate the quiet pre-dawn streets headed for the nearest freeway. 'Givin' up?'

'Hardly,' Sek scoffed and re-adjusted her seat to recline slightly as she made herself comfortable. 'I'm thinking the antipodeans; New Zealand's out, you like bigger population centres, so that leaves…….Australia.'

Sek turned triumphantly in time to see Remy's grin break free fully. He laughed softly and nodded. 'Sydney,' he confirmed easily. He took his eyes from the road to glance at her. 'Nice work. If'n I didn't know better I'd t'ink I was gettin' predictable.'

'I'm a genius remember?' Sek tapped her fingertip to one temple. 'Working that out was child's play.' She made a show of buffing her nails. 'And you are predictable,' she added just to peeve him. She cast a sly glance his way. 'You're a chaotic wet dream.' She said shortly. 'Following that basic principle it's possible to extrapolate fairly accurately what you'll do next and why.'

'A chaotic wet dream?' Remy looked like he was struggling to keep a straight face. 'I don' know how I ought to take dat.'

'Think of it as a complement,' Sek told him confidently, 'Chaos is hot.'

Remy laughed then and the sound was warm and thick as honey. He laughed so hard he had to slam on the brakes to stop them going into the back of a Surburan at a stop light.

'I missed you Sek.' He told her abruptly once he'd calmed down and the lights had changed. She blinked at him both flattered and startled. She was pleasantly surprised when he reached out a hand to lightly squeeze her knee in a lightning quick touch before returning both hands to the wheel, 'It's good t' see you again.' He told her simply.

Sek was quiet for a moment. She and Remy had been friends for something like three years or so. She'd met him when her daddy's company, Elysium Enterprises, ended up involved in something they shouldn't have been. That something being the search for an extraterrestrial artefact of major power; or to be precise, the treasure of Ghaba Hsien and a relic of the Celestials. Remy had been commissioned to steal that technology before Elysium, and more particularly Sekhmet herself, could discover the secrets of that dangerous power and cause all kinds of unwitting, but Earth shaking, trouble with it.

In all the ensuing explosions and excitement Remy had saved Sek's life, after accidentally endangering it in the first place, and coincidentally, ignited her fascination in him and his lifestyle.

Dashing, suave and cheerfully self-deprecating, Remy was the walking talking poster boy made flesh for all of Sek's tomb raider, Indiana Jones inspired fantasies. When her Daddy had hired some strange and probably slightly disturbed individual in a cape called the X-Cutioner to take Remy down, Sek had found the opportunity to get to know the Cajun thief a whole lot better, especially when she decided to help him avoid capture. After Remy had kicked the X-Cutioner to the curb he'd made peace with her Daddy by offering to acquire for him a different ancient artefact in place of the Ghaba Hsien find, and a further promise to bolster Elysium's security for free whenever her Daddy wanted. Sek's father had been very pleased.

Sek herself had been more pleased when, sometime after that, Remy had started making social calls. He'd pop by unexpectedly at her apartment bearing gifts of Ben and Jerry's ice cream and would tell her stories about the life of an international master thief. Sek had lapped those stories up a whole lot faster than she had devoured the Baked Alaska white chocolate polar bears in her ice cream.

Eventually Sek had figured out that Remy had made most of those stories up. Primarily because at the time he hadn't been making his living as a thief; instead he'd been a standing member of the internationally infamous mutant vigilante group the X-men. Sek had been very pleased with herself when she'd worked out that one with nothing more than her native wit and the aid of a Google search.

Then about two years ago, he'd just disappeared off the radar for something like six months. After that he'd been more of a cyber friend than a flesh and blood presence in her life. He'd also left the X-men during that time, but Sek didn't know the details about that. She suspected it wasn't a happy parting of ways, but as it was clear Remy didn't want to discuss it Sek held back her usually irrepressible curiosity with an application of pure will power and did not ask.

Now that the silence in the car was getting heavy, Sek realised it had taken her too long to reply to his comment. Remy wasn't the sort of person to talk about himself in any serious way, or his feelings, and now he was probably going to clam up on her for hours if she didn't fix the awkwardness of the moment. She did the only thing she could think of to alleviate the gathering tension, she made a joke.

'I'd like to say the feeling's mutual,' she glanced slyly sideways towards Remy, 'but truthfully I only like you for the free tomb raider trips.'

Remy grinned, white teeth flashing under the street lamps as he joined the freeway headed east. 'Dat's okay, chere, I only like you for your brain.' He gave her a red eyed wink and the strange atmosphere in the car dissipated as if it had never been. Sek relaxed visibly.

'That's what all the boys say,' she sighed theatrically. Remy laughed.

'So,' she asked after a few miles had past by in companionable silence and Sek could feel sleep tugging at the edges of her thoughts. 'What's the agenda this time? Are we going to break into Doctor Doom's summer villa, or travel back in time; maybe a spot of grave robbing and jewel stealing?'

'Not this time, non.' Remy kept his eyes on the road.

'Well what are we doing then?' Sek stifled a yawn. Remy glanced at her almost slyly as he overtook a sixteen wheeler going up hill.

'We gon stop de comin' o' Apocalypse cherie, an' prevent de enslavement o' de entire human race.' Remy said, perfectly deadpan.

Sek blinked, suddenly wide awake. 'Oh.' She said weakly. She swallowed and thought a moment. 'Cool.'

Remy smiled, 'thought you'd say dat.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Three:**

**The past: April 2010**

Sebastian Shaw sat back in his large leather backed chair behind his massive desk and considered the lounging figure slumped in the chair opposite him with something approaching glee. However he kept his expression under lock and key.

'Mr LeBeau do you know why I had you brought here?'

'Non, your lackeys didn' say.' The younger man seated opposite him shifted slightly in the chair. The action was not one of nervousness; he merely twitched his shoulders in a minute shrug. 'But I figure you not de sort to keep quiet when you got somet'ing to gloat on, so why don' you tell me?'

Sebastian considered this show of bravado. 'When my people found you Mr LeBeau you were sleeping on a pile of soiled mattresses in an alley.'

Once more the young man shrugged, 'Couldn' find a hotel dat met my standards.' He shifted down in the chair, straggles of greasy unwashed hair falling in front of his face. 'Is dis gon take long, m'sieur? I got places to be.'

Shaw smiled. He had been watching Gambit from the moment his spies had told him an American mutant had arrived in Sydney. It was clear to Shaw that the Cajun's circumstances were somewhat dire. It was also clear that the thief still retained enough native arrogance to transcend his own destitution.

'Have the X-men come under some financial straits I am unaware of?' Sebastian asked disingenuously, 'Have they sent you out to thieve for them?'

Gambit looked him boldly in the eye for a moment before clucking his tongue contemptuously. He wagged one finger in mock approbation; the fingernail was caked in dirt and grime. 'Now homme, your intel be better den dat.' Gambit mocked him arching expressive, somewhat wild, brows. He fluttered his hand with an almost languorous grace completely at odds with his dishevelled and rather ripe smelling appearance. 'Me an' de X-men have parted company, n'est pas.' The man's smile was sharp and fierce. 'We've agreed to see ot'er people.'

Sebastian knew this of course. He monitored Charles Xavier's rabble remotely as a matter of course. Gambit's departure had been abrupt and the exact details eluded Sebastian. Still the reasons for Gambit's inevitable exile from the X-men were less important to Shaw than the opportunity the Cajun's current vulnerability offered him.

'So the X-men cast you out, did they?' Shaw smiled, showing teeth. 'I believe I told you they would, the last time you refused my generous offer of employment.'

Gambit gave him a somewhat sour look, 'I liked my phrasin' better.'

'I'm sure you do,' Shaw brushed his hand over his starched white shirt, checking his obsidian cufflinks. 'I'm curious why you chose to come to Sydney, Gambit.' He glanced at the man. 'You can understand why I am sceptical to believe it is merely coincidental. Charles Xavier was grooming you to become another of his spies after all.'

Gambit scoffed scratching at his forehead under the tangle of his unkempt bangs, 'Oui, an' you ain't a petite bit paranoid or not'ing.' The younger man grinned at him. 'You be de one dat had your goons bring me here at gun point, oui? Mebbe I din't even know you were holed up in de city 'til now, non?'

'And maybe you should remember that I can have you killed in a finger snap, before you lie to me again.' Shaw suggested mildly.

Gambit merely grinned at him, bright and empty across the desk. Shaw considered his next move. Xavier's little brainwashed disciples were some of the strongest, most powerful mutants' currently in existence but, alas, most of them were so hamstrung and addled by Xavier's peculiar morality that their usefulness to a man like Shaw proved decidedly limited. Gambit, in contrast, was one of the exceptions. As far as Shaw could ascertain, Gambit had managed to rub shoulders with the X-men and still come away from the experience as basically amoral as he had started out. Sebastian had spent a life time capitalising on opportunity when it dropped into his lap, or more literally, his office. Gambit was an opportunity waiting to be exploited. What Xavier had let slip through his fingers Sebastian would grasp in an iron fist.

'I have work for you, Gambit.' Sebastian told the other man, suppressing a smile. The younger mutant slouched even lower in the chair and remained impassive under the straggling fall of his unkempt hair, but his peculiar eyes glimmered as he watched Shaw without a word.

Sebastian went fishing; the younger mutant was obviously lacking any other options of either employment or residence, yet he was prideful and not likely to give in without at least the hint of some face saving deal.

'Or if you prefer, you might like to barter information?' Shaw examined his manicure.

The red eyed mutant across the desk smiled. 'Don' reckon anyt'ing I can tell you gon be somet'ing you don' already know, m'sieur.' The smile grew condescending. 'A man wit' your connections ain't gon need de gossip o' de streets.'

Shaw suppressed a frown, 'I am prepared to pay.'

Gambit gave him a faux wide-eyed look, 'Really homme? Always figured you more de sort to make ot'er people pay, non?'

'The X-men have cast you out and left you destitute, LeBeau. You're loyalty to them is beyond stupidity. I had thought you a better business man than this.'

'Who says de X-men did dis to me?' Gambit shrugged, flexing the fingers of one hand in an arrhythmic tattoo against the chair arm. 'Mebbe I be de architect o' my own misfortune, eh?'

Shaw noticed that the thief's hand was traced in a latticework of thin, white scars. Shaw made a mental note of this. It might prove useful information and might explain his current poor circumstances; a thief, like any blue collar labourer, needed his hands to make a successful living. If Gambit had been in some way damaged it might explain why he had left the X-men and currently languished on the streets of Sydney like a common bum.

'Good; a man who can accept his own mistakes is a strong one.' Sebastian nodded easily. He fixed the other mutant with a hard eyed regard, 'but only so long as he can also recognise an opportunity when it is offered to him. I believe I offered you the chance to work with me when you first joined Charles' flock.'

Shaw recalled as he spoke the time he had discovered the mutant in one of his private gambling clubs some years ago; he had recognised the man as a thief first and foremost and a very useful tool besides.

'I offered you a very handsome deal.' Sebastian laced his fingers together, elbows on the desk top. 'You turned my offer down. It is rare that I give someone the chance to reconsider. If you are clever you will not refuse me this time.'

'Back den you wanted to hire me to spy on de team for you,' Gambit smiled reaching out with his other hand, sans any scars, to scratch at his stubble covered chin. 'I tol' you at de time dat I make a lousy spy; tol' you de X-men too suspicious o' me to ever let deir guard down.' The man blinked guilelessly, 'Don' see who you could want me to spy on now.'

Sebastian almost laughed out loud, 'Please; do you honestly expect me to believe that act?' Sebastian drummed his fingers on the desk top. 'Sinister groomed you to be his agent provocateur and Xavier attempted to reprogram you in the name of his Dream. You were reared to be a spy and saboteur. You are incapable of any other behaviour.'

Shaw studied Gambit with amusement. 'I suppose you are going to tell me next that you truly believed in Charles' fanciful Dream? That you stayed with the X-men because of the rhetoric and not because Xavier offered you sanctuary from Sinister.'

'Sure I believed. Still do, mostly.' Gambit's expression was bright and empty; there was an almost mannequin like quality to it. The thief appeared more like a man going through the motions of familiar dialogue instead of truly engaging in the conversation. It was interesting.

Shaw laughed. 'You are a mercenary, Gambit. You have spent your life selling your services, and loyalty, to the highest bidder.'

The thief shrugged again. 'A body got to do what he got to do to survive. A homme can believe in somet'ing heart an' soul but he still got to go out an' earn his livin', oui?'

Shaw tapped his fingers together. 'Enough with the word games Gambit. We both know the truth. Charles Xavier's protection has run out and you are in the market for a new master.' Shaw's eyes were hard. 'You were reared to serve thief. Today I require your services.'

The Cajun's dark eyes glittered with something both hard and avaricious. 'Mebbe you can' afford my price, non?'

Sebastian smiled and it was somewhat wolfish in appearance. 'You've come to make a deal.' It wasn't a question. There was no other reason the thief have surrendered to mere humans without incident. 'That's why you didn't fight when my men picked you up.'

Gambit smiled and shrugged giving away nothing, 'My papa always tol' me not to argue wit' men wit' guns pointed at my head.' He flapped his hands, 'But seein' as I'm here, it don' hurt to hear you out, m'sieur.'

'First,' Shaw said in business tones, 'I want your word that your association with the X-men has been completely severed.'

'Oui,' The Cajun nodded. 'Severed be a good word for it.'

'Why?' Shaw asked keenly. 'Ororo Munroe was your sponsor in the X-men and whatever faults that woman might have, she is not one to abandon a comrade or a friend.'

Gambit's expression thinned out to an almost pained blandness. 'She knows.' He said on a whisper.

Shaw kept his inner reaction to this news to himself but inside he was laughing. So the X-men had discovered Gambit's past had they? This could only be a boon to Shaw as it would increase Gambit's desperation and thus make him that much more pliable, while weakening the man's own bargaining hand further. No doubt the man was living like a beggar to hide from his vengeful former comrades; the X-men could always be counted on for their ill-thought out and reactionary behaviour.

Gambit narrowed his eyes, perhaps picking up on something in Shaw's demeanour that suggested at his inner thoughts. The thief's lip curled in annoyance. 'What you be wantin' homme? You don' care if'n I'm workin' for Xavier or not; you never did. Hell homme, couple times you an' de X-men been almos' buds. Stormy was in your Hellfire Club, non?' Gambit shook his head tiredly. 'You don' let ideology get in de way o' gettin' what you want.'

'And neither do you, thief. Those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.' Sebastian pointed out succinctly.

Gambit had the potential to be useful, and it was all the better if he was prepared to make himself Sebastian's tool without Shaw having to exert undo influence or effort, but he was not about to allow the man before him to forget who had the power and who did not.

Gambit smiled beatifically, 'Homme, you not'in but selfish; compared to mos' de folks I've tangled wit' dat makes you near ont' a saint.'

Sebastian refrained from commenting on_ that_ and instead seized on the fact that Gambit was no longer trying to pretend that he wasn't interested in making a deal. Shaw met those red on black eyes.

'I want information on Sinister,' he said without preamble, 'I want to know the technology he uses to create his tessaracts. I want the locations of his bases.'

The thief's fixed and vacant smile grew sly. 'Why stop dere homme? We bot' know what you really want.' Gambit sat up in one smooth movement and, much to Sebastian's surprise, he leaned forward over the desk so his face was less than an inch from Sebastian's. 'You wan' de Black Womb.' Gambit whispered silkily, eyes dancing with cold, laughing flame.

Sebastian instantly went still, resisting the urge to lean back and away from Gambit. He managed to keep the surprise from his voice only through dint of long practice. He was not used to having the tables turned on him so abruptly. 'I don't know what….'

His denials were cut off almost instantly as Gambit spoke over him, even as the man retreated back to his side of the desk, 'Essex is dead; de only person alive dat know all de secrets o' de Black Womb project is moi.' Gambit's eyes were hard. 'You c'n have dem secrets, homme. I jus' wan' one t'ing from you in return.'

Sebastian was quiet for a long moment as he tried to calculate the best way to win control of this meeting back again. He had underestimated Gambit. It had never occurred to him that the thief might possess information on the Almogordo project – but it should have.

Black Womb had been an annoying enigma for Shaw most of his adult life. He was aware of the connection to the creature called Sinister, he was aware that the project had involved a series of genetic enhancement and mutant experiments, including an intensive breeding project that carried over three decades from the fifties to the eighties, but he did not know the reason for it all. He did not know what the elusive, euphemistic "Garden" was supposed to be. Shaw wanted to know what the Garden was; he wanted to know very badly. He suspected there was a lot of money to be made from the Black Womb and its secrets.

'You expect me to believe Sinister is dead?' Sebastian asked after a moment in a hard voice. That creature had been the major hurdle preventing Shaw from uncovering the secrets of the project. It would be convenient indeed if he had suddenly been removed from the game board.

Gambit widened his eyes comically; there was pure mockery in his regard. 'You din't know?'

From somewhere on his person under the voluminous fold of his battered trench coat Gambit proffered a sheaf of papers across the desk. 'Dis be de details on de magic bullet dat kilt monsieur Essex.' The Cajun flashed Shaw an insolent grin.

'And you just happened to be carrying these around with you?' Shaw took the papers but continued to stare at Gambit.

Gambit smiled, 'Like you said homme; I be a mercenary, got to have somet'ing to sell, non?'

Shaw returned the smile with as little genuine feeling as the one facing him. He looked at the slightly grimy papers in his hands, 'Magic bullet?'

'Well not lit'rally.' The Cajun hitched one shoulder in his habitual Gallic shrug, 'T'ink it was more a syringe act'lly, but you get de picture.'

Sebastian flicked through the schematics and medical data upon the papers. He was not a medically trained professional and he did not possess a doctorate in genetics but Shaw was not a stupid man. He looked up at the man on the other side of the desk as he realised just how he had been played. Gambit had been waiting for him Shaw to pick him up, all along. Despite suspecting the outside possibility that Gambit's presence in Sydney was a lure all along, Sebastian was still surprised by the depths of Gambit's cunning. The thief was too good at projecting an image of thoughtless impulsiveness. He deceived people of his basic nature with every word and deed.

'Do we have a deal?' he asked calmly, refusing to react to the new information he had been given and the speculation rife in his mind.

Gambit smiled broadly leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, 'Firs' we gon talk about my price, non?' the Cajun tapped a finger over the papers on the desk he had just given to Shaw. 'Dem notes be jus' de tip o' de iceberg, homme. If'n you wan' de rest you gon have to pay up, oui?'

Shaw looked across the desk to his visitor, 'Very well. What do you want in return for all your information on Sinister and the Black Womb Project.'

Gambit's smile was sharp as a blade. 'I want you to fin' me de best neuro-surgeon in de business dat ain't got a connection to de X-men. Den I wan' you to pay him whatever he wants to perform a lil' procedure on de quiet.'

'Neuro-surgeon?' Sebastian spoke out sure he had misheard. He was surprised; decidedly surprised. He had expected demands for an exorbitant amount of money, or even shelter from a furious team of X-men, as one of Gambit's demands. This was quite out of the blue.

'Oui,' The other man drawled, 'A neuro-surgeon.' Gambit smiled mockingly and flapped his scarred hand in a dismissive gesture. 'I got me a need for a lobotomy so I don' accident'ly blow mysel' to kingdom come.' Gambit's mouth twisted in distaste. 'My las' docteur be disintegrated by my ex an' my former friend, so I need anot'er one.'

Sebastian brushed his fingers over one of his styled sideburns; he filed this information away for later consideration without letting his internal conjecture affect his outward composure. 'And that is all you want?'

Gambit cocked his head to the side and regarded Shaw coolly, 'It be a start.' His grin burst free just a shiver away from all out laughter. 'Like you said earlier homme; I sell mysel' to de highest bidder. We c'n work out de details o' what you gon pay me to stay wit' you after.'

'And why do you suppose I intend to keep you on retainer?' Sebastian was actually curious about this. He was not necessarily opposed to the notion, as he was confident he could kill Gambit before the man could betray him if that was what the thief had in mind.

Gambit's smile grew huge and self-satisfied, 'Simple homme; you gon use me to get your Hellfire Club back an' all de power you lost back in de States.' Gambit winked at him. 'I'm gon help you do dat so as I c'n use your power for my own ends – an' dat way ev'rybody happy, non?'

Shaw laughed out loud, impressed despite himself by the sheer lunatic chutzpah Gambit possessed even destitute and unwashed. 'And what do you plan to get out of using my resources to your own ends?' he asked the other man mildly.

The bright and slightly maniacal grin Gambit had worn all through this impromptu "interview" was nowhere in evidence now. In fact the young man looked quietly solemn as he faced Sebastian over the expanse of his wide desk.

'My sanity,' the thief said. 'I get to keep my mind.'

* * *

**The present: 2011**

Spring sunlight speared through the large study windows, filtered through a haze of soft lace. The scent of apple blossom furniture polish hung in the air as Professor Charles Francis Xavier tapped his fingers over the handheld Cerebro interface device.

The mind of a telepath was an interesting place; once or twice Charles had privately likened his own consciousness to that of a busy bus or airport terminal. It was a place of constant comings and goings and yet, also, it could be strangely sterile and inhospitable. Long ago Charles had learned that the only way to stay sane was to allow the riff raff of other peoples' thoughts to filter through his mind and out again much like the flow of foot traffic through a bus terminal. Attempting to keep everything out or conversely to analyse and store every alien thought that passed through his own consciousness was a sure invitation to madness.

Now sitting in his wheelchair, primarily because the hover chair did not fit comfortably behind his antique desk, Charles was aware in a vague way of every other person in the mansion. Robert was in the den watching Saturday morning television. Threnody was attempting to grapple with the intricacies of the washer dryer and Hank was in the process of making waffles. Logan and Jubilee, along with Husk and Chamber were in the Danger Room engaged in a session under the watchful eye of the visiting Emma Frost. Scott and Jean were arguing in the library. Charles sighed and pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

'Cerebro, increase the ambient psi dampening in sector Alpha zero five.'

'Command acknowledge; psi-dampening increased 0.5 percent in sector Alpha zero five.'

Charles sighed again and shook his head. The desire to intervene in Scott and Jean's recent problems was surprisingly great. Scott was a surrogate son to him and Jean – well – Jean was Jean. Nevertheless Charles knew better; the life of the world's pre-eminent telepath was that of a constant meddler, but the best meddler knew when to act and when to refrain. There was nothing he could do to alleviate the tension between the couple. There was nothing anyone could do. Only hope that the couple would work out their differences and resolve their fears.

Charles flipped on his PC terminal to check his email. He enhanced his own mental shields a little more as Jean's hurt, frustration, and fear began to pulse against the sensitive contours of his consciousness. He might have to speak with Jean after all; she hadn't been this sloppy in her control in years.

Finally the computer booted up and Charles logged in. A renowned academic Charles' recent woes, including Onslaught and his subsequent year long incarceration at the hands of the Federal government and then Bastion, had not affected his standing as a leading light in the field of genetic mutation and mutant rights. Therefore Charles had one dedicated email address for his academic contacts alone. He passed a cursory eye over the most recent messages but did not bother to open any of his mail just yet. He did not see that many symposia or fundraising luncheons fitting into his foreseeable future.

Instead he logged into his personal email inbox and decided to see what Amazon recommended he buy next; the suggestions amused him greatly, especially as he did not remember perusing the most recent video game releases. Charles smiled; he would have to have a talk with Robert about using other people's personal internet accounts for his personal gain. Alternatively it had been a while since he'd renewed his subscription to World of War Craft. Still Charles was as likely to enjoy the many and varied pursuits of Grand Theft Auto: Deluxe Edition as Robert Drake was likely to start acting his age.

Stifling an amused grin Charles opened his other account. This last email account he opened was his secure connection; the one that Robert had yet to hack. He noted a new message waiting for him with interest. He opened the message. A second later Charles stretched his mental touch out through the mansion.

_Scott – I require your presence in my study._

As he severed the light contact he felt the backwash of Scott's annoyance and frustration resulting from his fight with Jean and also the sharp pang of relief as Scott realised he had an excuse for escaping the quarrel altogether. Charles sighed yet again and turned to wheel himself over to the window as he waited for Scott to arrive.

Forty seconds later there was a perfunctory knock on his study door and then Scott entered. 'Is there something you need sir?'

Scott closed the door behind him politely and walked across the thick paisley area rug to the desk. He stood to attention even in civilian attire of chinos and a olive green light sweater.

'At ease, Scott. I simply want to discuss something with you.' Charles waved his hand hoping that his former protégé would relax somewhat.

It had been almost two years since the X-Men had freed Charles from Bastion's Operation Zero: Tolerance, and it had been about eighteen months since Charles had fully regained the use of his mutant power once more. For the most part any lingering animosity, hurt, or mistrust between Charles and his students in the aftermath of Onslaught had dissipated; even Jean had come to terms with what she had learned from the depths of Charles' subconscious. Nevertheless there were occasions when Charles sometimes wondered about his relevance within the team. He sometimes questioned if Scott offered up that familiar honorific and military respect more in pity than actual deference. Charles had allowed his own hubris to almost destroy the Dream after all and Scott had been left to pick up the pieces.

'What would you like to discuss?' Scott relaxed fractionally, shoulders loosening but other than that he still remained standing tall and proud as if waiting for a wandering drill instructor to give critique of his form.

'I received a message from an associate in Egypt,' Charles began ignoring the doubts in his mind that he was sure were no more than a product of his own occasional self-doubt. 'Three weeks ago there was an explosion at a historical site in a place called Akkaba; an ancient pyramid was almost completely destroyed.'

'Akkaba?' Scott frowned brows creasing above his off-duty ruby quartz glasses. There was a moment while Charles waited for Scott to place the name. He watched as his first X-men caught the connection with rapid fire speed. 'Apocalypse,' the word was spoken without relish. 'I remember Cable telling me about Akkaba.'

Chalres nodded, 'The pyramid destroyed was referenced in historical records as one of the temples of the cult of En Sabah Nur.' Charles smiled thinly. 'Of course those records do not know the full significance of the site.' Charles wheeled himself from the window and back around to his desk. He gestured to his computer.

'My contact has some knowledge of the site's true significance as a possible former base of operations for Apocalypse. He also informs me that two strangers, one man and one woman, had been seen traversing the surrounding countryside in the days before the explosion.'

'A man and a woman?' Scott came around the desk so he could read the email himself. He sucked in a breath, 'Cable and Domino.' He said after a moment having read the description of the two strangers.

Charles nodded, 'I thought you should know. My contact has stated that there were no bodies found in the rubble, or any signs that anyone had been harmed. If Cable had been present during the explosion he clearly escaped unscathed.'

'He's hunting Apocalypse,' Scott straightened up and paused so he could lift his glasses and rub at his tightly closed eyes with his fingers. 'Damn it.' There was a pause. Scott replaced his glasses, 'Sorry sir – it's just…'

'You are concerned,' Charles waved away the apology, 'And there is reason to be. It seems probable that Apocalypse or his agents are mobilising once more.'

Scott hesitated, lips pursing. He was quiet for a moment and Charles could almost hear the comments Scott would not allow to pass his lips. He waited for Scott to find the words he wanted. 'Sir are you sure we should believe everything written in the Destiny Diaries?'

'Everything?' Charles almost smiled as he steepled his fingers, elbows resting on the chair arms, 'Certainly not. Not only was Irene Adler a member of Mystique's terrorist cell while alive, she was also likely driven mad by her own precognitive powers. Her diaries are a suspect source at best. However what cannot be argued is there seeming accuracy.'

Scott frowned, 'Sir isn't that a contradiction? How can the diaries be accurate and suspect?'

Charles pushed himself to the window again and looked out at the pristine lawns glittering under the spring sunlight. 'For exactly the reason you do not trust them, Scott. The diaries present a very convincing and accurate portrayal of events in our past, suggesting that the predictions of the future are likely equally accurate. However it is the bias with which those events are presented that must be held suspect.'

Scott nodded as he came to stand by the window next to Charles, 'Right. I know the diaries have been pretty thorough so far, they have everything in them from the Dark Phoenix rising,' Scott paused momentarily, 'To Onslaught and Operation Zero Tolerance. But I just can't trust them, sir. I've been to the future. I've seen it. I just can't accept that everything we do, everything we might face, is already predetermined and all we're doing is following a script.'

And that is why you are the one to lead the team, Charles thought privately, that is the reason you are the first and the foremost X-man. Aloud Charles took another tact. 'You're worried about Storm's team.' It wasn't a question.

Scott sighed and crossed his arms over his chest as he stared out of the window, 'You know my feelings on the matter. I think Storm is taking the diaries too literally. If this "Twelve" threat is genuine I think it can only hurt the X-men to split our resources.'

Charles nodded, 'Which is exactly what Ororo said to you when you argued against following the diary leads.' Charles brushed his tented fingers against his lips, 'And now the team is divided, at least until such time as Storm sees fit to return with her team from Madripoor.'

Scott stiffened, 'Do you think Storm's right?' There was an incipient hint of hurt and reproach in the otherwise calm question. Charles considered his answer seriously.

'I believe that it would be a mistake to either adhere to the diaries too closely or ignore them completely out of hand.' He replied judiciously. 'Thus, as I said before Storm and her team left the Mansion, I can see no alternative but to split the team until such time as we have some more concrete lead to work on.'

Scott was quiet for a very long moment before speaking, 'Jean believes them.'

'I know.'

Charles did not look at his first X-man and instead continued to gaze mildly out of the window at the sparkling sunlight. Scott shifted his weight uncrossing and then crossing his arms over his chest again. Charles did not react to the swirl of frustration and hurt he could feel emanating from Scott's mind. He knew better than to push Scott into confiding in him.

'I just can't believe that she'd think I'd leave her for Emma.' Scott finally ground out. 'I've loved Jean from the moment we met; we've gone through more than most people could ever imagine and we've done it together. I still love her as much now as I ever did.' Scott ran a hand through his short brown hair, 'Why can't she see that? She's in my mind. Why doesn't she believe I love her anymore?'

Charles was quiet for a little time, during which Scott paced to one of the ceiling to floor bookshelves in the study. The younger man leaned his head against the thickly lined shelf, arms braced above his head. That one gesture, such a break from the usual regimental rigidness Scott usually adhered to, spoke more fully of his emotional turmoil that any words.

'Sir I don't know what more I can do, or say.' Scott bowed his head. 'I feel like I'm losing her and it hurts. It really hurts.'

'I know Scott.' He wheeled his chair forward towards Scott. 'All I can tell you is to give it time. Jean isn't happy with Emma's increased involvement with the team during Jubilee, Husk, and Chamber's transition from the Massachusetts Academy to the mansion.'

Scott turned around and his expression could best be described as sour, 'I'm not exactly thrilled either.' He admitted with surprising candour.

'True,' Charles fought the smile that wanted to climb up over his steady countenance. 'Emma's presence during our junior members' transition has been surprisingly bracing.'

'Jean's taking every slight Emma gives her personally. I honestly thought the two were going to come to blows the other day.' Scott shook his head.

Charles Xavier sighed and folded his hands over his lap. 'You have to remember that even telepaths are human in the end.' He told his chosen field leader and surrogate son. 'Jean is only human and as prone to irrational fear and hurt just as you are. Be patient Scott, but stand up for yourself. The Diaries have unsettled the entire team.'

Scott sighed, 'I understand sir.' He straightened his shoulders, 'Are you going to try and contact the Mutant Underground and find Cable, or shall I?'

'I think it would be best that you do that, Scott. It can't hurt for Cable to know you are worried about him.'

Scott's expression, even obscured by his glasses, was bleak. 'I don't think Cable cares.'

'Have faith Scott,' Charles insisted with bedrock certainty, 'Cable is still your son and he always will be.'

Scott did not say anything more on the subject instead he drew himself up into the regimental stance he used as Cyclops and nodded once in perfunctory fashion as he excused himself from the meeting. 'I'll let you know if I manage to make contact with Cable.'

Charles nodded and watched Scott leave the study. He waited until he could feel the departure of Scott's buzzing mind.

'Cerebro lock study door, allow access only to passcode Xavier three.'

'Command acknowledged: study door sector Alpha four locked. Access denied except via passcode Xavier three.'

Charles wheeled his chair back to his desk and manoeuvred until he could reach an arm under the desk. He felt about until his hand closed on the plastic wrapped object tapped to the underside of the desk. He removed the leather bound volume from the plastic wallet. A piece of writing stationary emblazoned along the margins with a simplistic design of a smiling ribbon wearing cat almost fell loose from within the closed covers of the book.

Charles caught the paper and placed it on the desk with the diary volume. He tapped his fingers meditatively over the page of paper, opening the diary to somewhere close to the middle. A spidery scrawl of nearly illegible text spiralled around the page, growing more densely packed together and less legible the closer it came to the centre of the page:

_The untouchable in mortal peril and the vanguard of a new tomorrow hunted from the shadow; a reckoning and a resurrection born of darkness most foul shall usher in a new beginning to an old dance. All this I have seen, a fate written in tears. There shall be many to see but only one may live to Witness; the lord of lies and laughter, watch as he dances. _

Stapled to the reverse of that page and attached to each page thereafter in the book was a player card; each one a joker from a different pack. The rest of the pages until the last page in the volume were blank; considering Destiny's habit of filling the pages of her diary with sketches and cryptic scrawl that very blankness seemed almost indicative. The wild card changed the game; all bets were now off.

The page of stationary paper posed a simple, yet inscrutable question written in a neat blocky hand in careful French: _Are you a Flamingo or a Crocodile Charles? Do you know the way to denial? _

Charles pulled the first of the jokers free of the page. He lifted it up between his fore and index finger. The joker had red on black eyes. Charles dropped the card back down on his desk and picked up the phone. He checked his rolodex and dialled a number. He waited for exactly five rings for someone to pick up.

'Yes, good morning; I'd like to speak with Mr. Gavin Junior, please. Yes it is a matter of some urgency.' Charles smiled as the receptionist on the other side of the line tried to stall him.

'No I don't have an appointment; I wasn't aware one was necessary to make a phone call. As I said the matter is urgent. Yes, I'll leave a message if I must: tell Mr Gavin that I have a commission for him. Tell him I would like to hire Gavin Couriers to retrieve for me something I have misplaced. Yes, tell him I'd like my Wild Card back. Oh, my name, yes. Charles Xavier; I'm sure he'll recognise the name. Thank you.'

Xavier hung up the phone and smiled. He neatly replaced the page of Hello Kitty stationary into the volume along with the joker card and secured the secret diary under the desk once more.

'A flamingo or a crocodile, is it?' Charles chuckled. 'Ah, my dear Nak Nak; I am the crocodile, of course.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Four: The Past - July 2010**

'Well don' dis just beat all, eh?'

Sydney's Viceroy of Crime, Simon Warbeck, was dead and Remy LeBeau was more than petit bit ticked off. The man slumped back in his leather swivel chair a brilliant crimson star bloom spreading out across his white Egyptian cotton shirt. The homme was still bleeding and that meant his killer was probably still around.

Magnifique; tres magnifique.

Figuring that if a backstab was in his cards it likely would have already happened, Remy didn't see any reason to go doing anything foolish, like making a break for it just yet. Wandering around to the side of the desk and the body, but avoiding standing too close to the large window looking out over the harbour, Remy crouched down beside the corner of the desk and studied Warbeck's corpse.

'Well homme, dat don be lookin' like no bullet hole I ever seen.' The sucking wound puncturing the Viceroy's sternum was too large and too clean to be caused by any normal firearm round – in fact it didn't look like a firearm injury at all; Warbeck had been stabbed.

Scratching the light dusting of stubble coating his chin with gloved fingers Remy considered the pros and cons of going ahead with the pinch. On the one hand it didn't look like the Viceroy would be raising any objections to Remy helping himself to the contents of his vault – on the other hand the man was dead and whoever did it just might see fit to frame himself a Cajun patsy. Remy smiled glancing up at the glittering veldt of lights twinkling below the high rise towards the harbour bay. This could be fun.

'So homme, you gon jus' stand dere or what?' He asked the near silently breathing killer in the corner a smirk playing at Remy's lips as he anticipated a nice interlude of craziness to top off a long day.

'That will depend primarily on you, Marauder.'

A man stepped out from a well of deep shadow between a six foot metal filing cabinet and the wall. The way he wrapped shadow around him was not natural, nor was the practiced silence of his footfalls as he eased into the reflected light of the downtown neon. Remy arched an eyebrow curious. He was intrigued as much by the man's address as his presence.

'Don' know who you be, homme, but your intel be out of date by about six years, non? I don' be no Marauder.' Rising slowly, but smoothly to his feet Remy watched the other man as the little hairs on the back of his neck rose up on end. _Danger Will Robinson; dis homme don' look none too friendly._

The man was dressed almost exclusively in black, from his leather duster to the glossy fall of fine hair behind his back. He did not wear gloves and his skin bore the hint of a dusky natural tan. His accent, though soft, marked him as Spanish to Remy's trained ear. The man's penchant for black also made Remy reconsidered his previous judgement that he must be a professional (no decent thief of assassin would go round wearing that ensemble unless they were trying to get themselves killed). Still the four foot long honest to god sword held loosely in the man's right hand did sort of demand respect.

'You truly do not know me, do you?' The man's broad features almost gained expression for just a moment. He almost frowned. Remy was even more curious. Had this homme waited specifically for Remy to crash the post mortem party? That could be bad, particularly if the homme wanted to add a charming Cajun corpse to his body count for the night.

'Non,' Remy admitted softly eyeing the sword and the man very carefully. 'don' recall ever seein' you before, m'sieur. An' I figure you de sort o' homme a body gon remember tangling wit' too.' He tried to stifle a chuckle but failed; the whole thing was just too ridiculous. It rolled from his lips as easy as thick honey, pooling amid the shadows of the room.

'I am Vargas.' The emo-goth leather wearing swordsman regarded him without expression as Remy's grin blossomed across his face. Mon dieu, of all the nights for this to happen, it would have to be tonight. Just once Remy would like to go a month without this sort of weird shit happening to him. Still the homme with the sword seemed to be waiting for some kind of response and Remy figured keeping the man waiting would be poor manners – not to mention potentially bad for his health.

'Dat's nice homme,' Flicking his gaze towards the dead man behind the desk Remy rocked back on his heels. 'So how dis gon go, mon ami? We gon come to some kinda arrangement, oui? Or we gon fight?' Quirking a brow Remy flashed his teeth in a somewhat wolfish smile. 'Person'ly I ain't in de mood for gratuitous violence t'night. Jus' came to do a job, n'est pas? I ain't int'rested in startin' not'ing. Whatever bad blood you got wit' de Viceroy ain't my problem, oui?'

Vargas, as the homme called himself, continued to scrutinise Remy with the flat stare of all cold blooded reptiles. 'Your powers of persuasion have no influence on me.' He said with definite finality. 'I have no interest in fighting you Witness.'

Remy control the flinch impulse that always sent creeping chills spidering up and down his spine any time he heard that name. Still he could not quite keep his voice from dropping an octave and growing soft, quiet, and precise. In fact the tone was less his and more a memory of a devil recently departed.

'Witness?'

Vargas nodded, 'We know you. We watch you. You are of the Betrayer's get; his prodigal and his creature. Still you are……useful. Every paradise needs a serpent.'

A serpent? Well, well, wasn't this something? Remy kept the smile on his face as he studied the crusader in biker leathers seriously. The metaphor was hackneyed and the insinuation towards his treacherous nature and past associations tres, tres gouche but nevertheless something tickled the back of his mind as he focused on the sword wielding homme. Something almost like recognition.

'You be called Vargas, dat what you said, non?' Something like the sound of distant warning bells throbbed in the back of his skull. That name meant something; something Remy suspected he wasn't going to like remembering.

'I am Vargas.' The man clarified with just enough stress on the phrasing that Remy suspected there was hidden significance there. Was "Vargas" more a title than a name? And better a question: why did every freak and weirdo in Christendom seem to gravitate Remy's way whenever he tried to conduct a simple pinch? It was getting beyond a joke now.

'D'accord.' Nodding his head slowly and thoughtfully Remy considered the man before him. 'If'n we ain't gon fight den I'm guessin' you got some kinda message for me, oui?'

'The message has already been delivered.'

And then like a magician performing his favourite trick Vargas took one big step back into the thick shadows of the office and…..disappeared. Just poof, he was there one second gone the next, melting into shadow without a sound.

'Now dat's impressive.' Checking every inch of the office for hidden passageways and the like that hadn't made it into the blueprints of the building, which the homme could have used to slip away Remy finally concluded that the homme had to be some kind of teleporter. Either that or he had a way of travelling through shadow, which Remy had to concede, wasn't out of the realms of possibility.

'Tsk, I ain't got time for dis.'

Shaking his head to clear it of pointless (but fun) speculation Remy went back to the business at hand; that business being a nice little spot of sabotage. He found the safe easily, right where his source had said it would be. Sloppy, very sloppy; no wonder Monsieur Warbeck had gone and got himself dead.

Warbeck, self proclaimed Viceroy of Crime in this fair city, had been a stalking horse if Remy had ever seen one. The man had no flair, no pizzazz; he was just a stooge for Hydra, the Hand, and any number of other Asian syndicates and home grown outfits all vying for a piece of the Aussie pie. The whole point of having a Viceroy was to be an intermediary between the squabbling crime lords, and Remy had to admit, in that respect Warbeck had been fairly efficient. Until recently there had been very little upheaval in the criminal underworld and next to no real turf wars taking place in the streets of Sydney.

Until recently.

Remy smiled silkily as he listened for the tumblers to click into place and the safe door to open. It had been a while since he'd orchestrated any gang wars, but it was kind of like riding a bicycle, you never forgot how to do it. Shaw had been impressed with how swiftly, smoothly, and most importantly, discretely Remy could instigate complete chaos amid the staid factions of Sydney's underworld. Remy found that tres amusante. Making chaos was what he'd been born for, n'est pas? It was easy as breathing.

In fact Remy was already to considering the advantages of a dead Warbeck to his and Shaw's general ambitions. A dead Viceroy hadn't been part of his original game plan, that was true, or at least he hadn't expected the Viceroy to kick the bucket so soon, but he could work with it. Ah oui; he could make it work. The safe opened and Remy crouched down beside the recessed cubby hole lined with knock-off adamantium; he'd heard rumour that the secret to all Warbeck's success lay hidden in this wall vault. Remy had his doubts, but recognised an opportunity when he heard it all the same.

Grinning like a kid on Christmas eve Remy flicked his pen light inside. 'Lessee what we got in 'ere,' The thin beam of light danced over a single object – a book; Remy blinked in surprise.

'Well dis be an anticlimax.'

Pulling the slim volume out of the safe Remy flicked his gaze of the unmarked water stained, and cracked, leather cover. The book smelled of age and faded paper. He tapped his fingers over the old leather and then carefully cracked the book open. A hundred worn, faded, but still intricate pen and ink sketches danced across each page growing ever more fantastically. Spindly hand written messages managed to hint at things without confirming anything.

'Quoi? What is dis?' The aged and well thumbed pages of this nameless volume almost crumbled under the run of his gloved fingers as Remy flicked through page after page of images. He saw strangers and former comrades rendered forever trapped in ink and pencil. He read fragments of speech he remembered hearing before, engraved for posterity in an antiquated hand. Yet it wasn't until he reached the end of the book that his heart almost stopped beating altogether.

Written in faded brown ink in a spiralling pattern descending into ever increasing circles toward the centre of the page, the words tangling and overlapping, spilling into one another in a maddening blur was a message to chill the blood of any devilish scoundrel.

_Spin the wheel, pick a card and cut the deck. Sow the wind so that you may ride the whirlwind; chaos is but a state of mind, mon ami. We are the sinners that have lived to repent and despair, only to embrace our sins. We are the minders of the grey; those who walk no beaten path, and tread no thin line. I know you mon cher; your face and your story I have seen in my dreams. I am Destiny. I have seen but you shall witness; together we shall create a beautiful lie. _

Wedged deep into the spine of the volume a worn playing card slipped free of its paper tomb and fluttered, face over face, to the floor. Remy bent swiftly to retrieve it before it could land and slip under the safe. He held the card up with shaking fingers. A joker with red eyes and diamond brow grinned out at him:

_Spin the wheel. _

Faster than the eye could follow Remy had stashed the volume and the card into the collapsible pack he had brought with him on this little thievery jaunt. He pulled out the carefully forged and immensely incriminating files and documents he had meant to secret in Warbeck's vault all along and placed them inside the vault. Now, all he had to do was a bit of prop staging and maybe the Viceroy's death could be profitable after all, non? Remy finished up swiftly, not bothering with the self-guided tour of the Viceroy's suite he had planned. The cryptic gibberish inside the volume had unnerved him. Stalking into the surprising chill night the thief pondered the future.

_The message has already been delivered._

'Mais oui m'sieur, de message been delivered an' received loud an' clear,' Remy laughed a harsh bitter sound. It was time to spin the wheel and sow the wind. It was time to make, and break, an apocalypse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Five: Interlude**

Fontanelle had seen many, many nightmares in her time. The realm of the subconscious was her personal playground. Still for all the screaming terror, the wild sobbing madness and the red hot gasoline stench of depravity she had witnessed in countless minds over the last three decades nothing disturbed her more than a mind in stillness. No healthy, living mind should ever be still.

'Remy?' Fontanelle moved on silent spectral feet over pale parquet flooring. The walls of the claustrophobically narrow corridor where an ugly, sterile white; there were no windows and no source for the fuzzy, diffuse white light congregating at the end of the corridor. There was no answer to her call and this troubled Fontanelle greatly – her nephew usually answered.

Eventually the corridor came to an end with a simple, uninspiring white door, unmarked and otherwise completely innocuous. The dream therapist had seen too many of these traps in her time, trespassing in the dreams of others. She flexed her fingers and summoned her prop faux riding crop to her hand. She slapped the crop against the surface of the door. A sluggish line of oozing crimson bubbled up from the surface of the door and dribbled down towards the floor.

'Tsk, this can't go on sweetie,' Fontanelle leaned back on one six inch spiked heel and kicked the door open with her other leg and a careful application of her own narcopathic power. The door flew open with a scream of pain, more blood flying in a sweeping arc where her heel punctured a surface as soft as flesh.

Beyond the now open door a neon drenched French Quarter rolled out like the red carpet beyond her. Music, lively and sweet, thrummed in the background and the scent of jambalaya and cat fish hung on the air offering the promise of a warm welcome. Fontanelle stepped across the threshold from the sterile hallway to the sultry static of this New Orleans–not-New Orleans.

There were people on the streets; they flickered hither and thither like surrealist holograms etched onto the velvet black of perpetual night in silk screen shades of vibrant magenta. Upon every blank faced phantom a diamond, red and angry, throbbed in warning. The woman once known as a Gloria knew just how volatile these shades could be and carefully skirted around them as she crossed Decatur Street towards Fat Tuesday's Bar and Grill.

She was just about to push open the peculiarly out of place swinging saloon doors when a soft moan coming from one of the pure pockets of winking dark shadow in the heart of a nearby alley caught her attention. The sound was one of pain and slow, despairing death.

'Remy?'

Knowing herself a fool Fontanelle nevertheless ventured to the mouth of the alley. A large halogen flashlight popped into existence in her hand and she swung the bright beam like the point of a rapier into the dark reaches. The shadow retreated in the face of that light, but revealed nothing. Another bubbling groan rolled forth from the shadows. Fontanelle set one foot forward towards the sound.

'Hello?' The beam of her flashlight was not so much cutting through the blackness as splashing a trail of silvered light over that darkness as if it was a canvas, thick as velvet. Another moan seemed to pull her another step deeper into the blackness.

A hand dropped down onto her shoulder. Fontanelle swung, riding crop rising, weight shifting onto her lethal heels. The hand fell away and her "attacker" caught the wrist holding the crop. A bright smile greeted her pounding heart.

'Bonjour Fonty, I din't hear you come in.'

Fontanelle waited until Remy let her wrist go and then thought the crop away, summoning the flashlight once more. 'Then you must have been distracted silly boy.' She clucked her tongue turning back to the alley, 'Are you aware there's someone dying in that alley back there.'

Remy laughed, 'Dere's always someone dyin'.'

He turned away towards the swinging saloon doors to Fat Tuesday's, pushing them open and bowing for Fontanelle to precede him inside. Fontanelle sighed and vanished away the flashlight. She could do nothing to heal the damage to his psyche unless Remy allowed her too, and clearly he wasn't willing to accept any help from his "tante".

'So you gon tell me why you be snoopin' 'bout in my head?' Remy pulled back one of the wooden chairs at one of the many tables filling the inside of the bar and grill. Fontanelle transformed the chair into a comfortable padded armchair and sat down, idly slapping her returned riding crop against her bare thigh.

'I prefer to think of it as visiting,' she told him as Remy flopped down into a chair opposite her. He snorted sourly but refrained from comment. In the far corner of the bar a band launched into an enthusiastic, but somewhat inexpert, rendition of an old zydeco tune. The slightly mournful twang of an accordion filled the silence developing between the two of them.

'We need to talk about this Shaw business.' Fontanelle told him easily muting the volume of the band so she could make herself heard. Around her at the other tables indistinct impressions of laughing, happy diners went about their business. Some rose to dance near the band, but whenever Fontanelle tried to focus on these revellers their forms dissolved into wisps of light and colour; ghosts of joy barely remembered, and little more.

'Non we don'.' Remy told her a trifle petulantly as he reached across the red and white checked table cloth to pick up the patterned red glass candle holder sitting on the centre of the table.

'Oui we do,' Fontanelle argued back reaching across the desk to touch Remy's left hand. When her palm covered the back of his hand she felt the slick, tacky warmth of congealing blood, just like always. 'I know why you chose Shaw,' she turned his hand over and pushed apart his clawed fingers, noting as she did so the bone deep cuts partitioning his skin like a miniature road atlas drawn in blood and pain. 'Tempting the devil is no way to defeat him. One slip and then it's game over.'

Remy smirked at her humourlessly. 'Den I won' slip.' He pulled his hand away and the blood continued to soak inches deep along the cuff of his ever present trench coat sleeve. The Sinister hand bleeds; how very ironic, Fontanelle thought with dark amusement.

'And what about this little game of world saving; is my dear little nephew really so desperate to get his ass kicked from here to hell and back?'

Remy gave her a sour look, 'You gon gripe at me all night, Fonty? 'Cuz if you are I t'ink I'm gon wake up now. Insomnia better den you naggin' all night long.'

'I don't nag, sweetie.' Fontanelle reached across the table and the flickering candle to tap Remy on the side of the head with her riding crop. 'I provide incisive commentary and insight into the inner workings of a client's subconscious. By the way, nephew mine, you're mind is a disaster zone and you're headed straight for a nice little psychotic break.'

Remy rolled his eyes, 'Like dat ain't happened before.'

Fontanelle smiled thinly. 'So have you prevented Armageddon then?'

'Dunno,' Remy shrugged and leaned back in his chair, relaxing now that he was sure she had not come to lecture him. 'De world's still turnin' though, so it can' be all dat bad.'

Fontanelle chuckled, 'Do you have any clue what you're doing poppet?'

Remy smiled expression wry, 'Nope; I'm just spinnin' de wheel.'

'And where it stops no one knows?' Fontanelly clucked her tongue. 'Nephew, have you ever heard of the notion of forming an actual plan before going off to war?'

'Oui, but I'm impatient,' Remy shrugged casually. 'I figure dis way, I kick de hornets nest and see what flies up, non? Cable gon t'ink dat Ozymandias be taken out o' de game for a reason, an' he gon look for dat reason, oui?'

Fontanelle smiled, 'And while he's chasing for phantom conspiracies he isn't running headlong into Apocalypse's carefully laid traps.' She rapped her nails against the cheerful tablecloth, 'You know, I think I see the crumb of a cunning plan here.'

'It get's better,' Remy leaned his elbows against the table top and flexed the fingers of his right hand as he spoke. 'Got to work out some o' de details,' he shrugged again a habitual gesture, 'got Sek workin' on dat, but de way I figure it you can't put out a fire dat ain't started yet.'

Fontanelle felt her eyebrows jump up her brow of their own volition. She really shouldn't have been surprised by this confession from her reckless Nephew but she was. 'And Cable is the spark to start the fire which, if we're going to avoid falling into an allegorical quagmire, means that Cable's unholy quest to destroy Apocalypse can only be a success if Apocalypse _can_ be destroyed.' She thought it through as she spoke. 'Our would-be saviour has to unearth Apocalypse to kill him and, basic cause and effect being what it is, that means kicking off the whole fracas with the Twelve.'

'Oui, so if'n I can distract him from dat, ol' Blue Lips don' get his resurrection.' Remy smiled. Then his expression shifted into something less certain. 'Dat's de theory anyhow,' He paused and glanced down at the table. 'Monsieur Essex sure thought it would work, 'course he din't intend to do t'ings de way I'm doin' dem, but de principles de same.'

Fontanelle sucked in a sharp breath, 'Remy.' The thought that her nephew had been speaking with her Father filled her with quiet roiling rage. Rebecca had not died to see her son become Father's shadow.

'Don' start, Fonty,' Remy turned his head away and would not meet her eyes.

Fontanelle lurched across the table top, ignoring the heat of the little flickering candle. She snatched his face between her long, bony hands in a tight grip, wrenching his face forward.

'Do not talk with Father.' She told him very clearly. 'Don't let him in. For god's sake, have you forgotten everything I told you? Have you forgotten what Rebecca wanted for you? How can you be so stupid?'

Remy's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed into a thin line. He tore her hands from his face and jerked his chair back from the table. 'I din't talk to him,' He snapped rising from the table to pace a little across the worn wood of the bar floor. Fontanelle noticed that the trench coat he wore was lined with fabric wrought in an interlocking pattern of black and red diamonds.

'But he talks to you,' her voice leaden she had to force the words up from a constricted throat, 'And _you_ listen.'

Remy did not answer, but no answer was answer enough. Fontanelle closed her eyes and wrung her bony hands together as she sat at the table. Oh Rebecca, I let you down. Father got to our baby boy and I'm not sure I can pry him loose. The poison was too deep, too closely tied to everything vital and alive inside the man her sister's child had become.

Frustrated rage and self-loathing kindled like dry heat and heartburn within Fontanelle's sunken, skeletal breast. If only she had been less a coward, less afraid for her own safety all those years ago. If only she had taken the babe with her when Rebecca died instead of allowing Remy to be taken in, and then cast out, by LeBeau and his feckless son. How much better things would have been then. She could have raised Remy to guard against Father; she could have raised him to be ready for Father's poison snares.

Instead her Father had caught Remy when he was barely more than jail bait. Hurt, betrayed, desperate, so terribly, terribly alone in the world. A bad little boy in a bad world almost inviting further darkness; Father had known all along and he had moulded Remy. Oh yes, so carefully, insidiously and oh so very, very cleverly had Father wrought his craft upon her nephew. Fontanelle wondered if Remy even realised that the bleeding wounds on his left hand marked grief, sadness, loss; grief for the devil that once controlled his world.

'What of the X-men?' She asked changing the subject but not changing it at the same time.

Remy stopped pacing and frowned over his shoulder at her. He eyed her warily, sensing a trap in the question. 'What about dem?'

Fontanelle laughed, 'Denial is a bad look for you, sweetie.'

He laughed then too returning to lounge in his chair, 'You t'ink? I always t'ought I wore it well.'

Fontanelle sighed. She had spent long enough playing therapist to know when a session was over. If she was to help her sister's child it would not be via direct means. No, she would have to employ a bit more subtlety. She met Remy's glittering eyes across the flickering, shadow wavering candlelight.

'It's time to wake up now, Remy.' She told him snapping the fingers of her right hand in his face in a cobra quick motion. Remy jerked back, reflexively, and tumbled right out of his own dream. Instantly the subconscious construct of Fat Tuesday's began to dissolve in mottled sparks of fuchsia light.

Fontanelle moved swiftly. She had but moments to get to the bottom of things. Diving out of the eroding bar she found the lightening darkness of the alley. Skittering on her spike heels into the shallow alley Fotanelle was not all that surprised to find the body of a man lying in his own filth and blood, propped up against two ripe and overflowing trash cans. A black cat, large as a lynx with red on black eyes, prowled around the fallen man, darting forward at irregular intervals and tearing flesh and clothing alike with sharp and vicious curved claws. Runnels of blood opened up across pale skin and the man groaned once more.

So the corpse was not a corpse after all? Fontanelle was by no means sure this was an improvement. She cocked her hip and lashed the riding crop with greater agitation against the bony nub of her hip bone. It was then that she was able to make out the man's face behind the blood and filth. A jolt of true fear, true horror coursed through her being.

'Jean-Luc LeBeau.'

The Patriarch of the New Orleans Thieves Guild lifted his bruised and battered head at the sound of her voice, but nothing more than a trickle of blood and spit dribbled forth from his swollen mouth. More of the Patriarch's blood had splashed over a quilt of broken bottle glass upon which the man slumped. Above his head, scored into the brickwork of the wall and daubed in blood and ashes, someone had written a chilling legend:

**No More Forgiveness**.

'Remy, Remy, Remy,' Fontanelle breathed, as the dream world collapsed around her. 'What have you done?'


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Six: 2011 The Present: Bayou Ste Clair; Louisiana**

Anthony Lydecker considered himself a connoisseur of power; a lawyer with twelve years experience defending the indefensible Lydecker was a man who understood the subtle nuances of prestige, influence and, of course, corruption.

'De wine to your liking, m'sieur?'

The woman sitting opposite from him, lounging across the chocolate brown suede sofa, smiled at him close-lipped as her fingers tapped against the frosted stem of her own wine glass with pale, lacquered nails. Lydecker returned her smile and sipped from his glass.

'Delightful,' he assured his most gracious hostess. Idly he flicked his gaze outward to the two large and silently imposing men standing just behind the sofa, like armed bookends. 'I find drinking in the presence of trained killers adds a certain savour to any vintage.'

Belladonna Boudreaux-LeBeau laughed silkily, 'Ah m'sieur I like you.'

Lydecker chuckled amiably, 'I am glad, madame. I find these sorts of matters can be resolved much more amicably if everyone maintains good relations.'

Belladonna regarded him with cool amusement while stroking a finger over one of her tightly bound blonde braids. 'Espec'lly when dealing wit' trained killers, non?' She asked dryly.

'And thieves,' Anthony smiled with frank appreciation. 'As you know I am contractual obliged to represent my client's interests as he has stipulated, but I must say, from a personal standpoint, I cannot imagine why my client would ever dream of divorcing a woman such as yourself, madame Boudreaux.'

The femme fatale lounging in a form fitting lavender sun dress across the couch smiled for him, flashing pearly white teeth to make any tiger proud. 'Madame LeBeau, m'sieur Lydecker, m' 'usband may want a divorce, but dat don' mean I'm ready to oblige him, D'accord?'

Lydecker swept a hand through his perfectly coiffed, golden hair before then spreading his hands wide in a placating manner. He bobbed his head in a near bow, 'Of course Madame; a slip of the tongue, nothing more.'

Belladonna nodded but there was something hard and calculating in her violet eyes. 'You know dat Remy be usin' you, non?'

Anthony Lydecker smiled, taking the time to consider the vase of marigolds on the end table. The Boudreaux mansion could have been cut straight out of the pages of Gone With The Wind; it was antebellum cliché given physical form. Lydecker found it quaint. 'Ah my dear lady, I am a lawyer, all my clients use me. That's the point.'

Belladonna tapped one finger against her cheek. 'Dis divorce be a sham. T'aint me Remy wan' hurt.'

Lydecker shrugged with another empty smile. 'I couldn't possibly comment.' He demurred sweetly. Of course had he been crazy enough to do so he might have suggested that madame Boudreaux did not know her estranged husband quite as well as she might think. Lydecker sipped from his glass so that nothing of his thoughts might show on his face.

_Homme I don' care if'n you fire bomb de Boudreaux maison. Jus' get me outta dat damn marriage, d'accord?_

Lydecker knew that his most _interesting _client had become increasingly frustrated with how long it was taking to force either an annulment or a divorce settlement on Belladonna Boudreaux. Anthony himself was not a divorce lawyer, criminal cases were his bread and butter, but Monsieur LeBeau's case was so fascinating that he had decided to give it a whirl. Having an international master thief considered to be an urban myth by both Interpol and the FBI on his books was just too much temptation for Anthony Lydecker to resist. That this divorce proceeding involved delving into the archaic and secretive world of a Guild of Assassins and Thieves only made the case that much more scintillating. It also didn't hurt that LeBeau seemed to have near bottomless pockets to fund this expensive and complicated divorce case.

Belladonna was still watching him like a cat with the canary she couldn't quite catch. 'You know dat dis divorce will destroy bot' Guilds, oui?

Anthony Lydecker continued to smile as blandly as the Mona Lisa, 'Madame I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.'

_I wan' de alliance shattered. I wan' de Guilds t'be dust homme. I don' care what it takes, jus' wan' it done. N'est pas? Dose leeches 'ave taken from me all I'm gonna give. _

******

**2011 The Present: Sydney Australia**

In the sub-basement of Shaw Industries Australia headquarters Remy LeBeau hummed softly under his breath as he tapped his fingers against steel laced walls and state of the art electronics – the very best stolen money could buy.

'I am sorry sir but there is no consciousness with which to interact.' Shaw's feminine shadow, Tessa, stood impassively before the energy field enclosed capsule containing the disembodied head of Ozymandias.

'But this thing can talk and act independently.' Shaw paced the lab in his Byronic poet shirt and tight pants, looking like a throw back from the eighties New Romantics movement. Remy slipped into the lab and went to lean over the railings looking down into the main area; a place where he could observe without coming under fire.

Tessa flicked her blank gaze up to him briefly before turning her attention to her master. 'Whatever mechanism was in place to animate this construct is no longer operative.' She said with confidence and her gaze once again angled towards Remy. 'Perhaps it was severed when the head was removed from the rest of the construct.' Ah oui, the femme couldn't resist throwing aspersions his way, could she now?

'LeBeau?' Shaw snapped without bothering to turn and look up at him. 'What do you have to say to that?'

'Not'ing.' Jumping over the railing Remy landed neatly on the metal grating of the main lab floor, straightened up, and padded over to the glowing force field. He peered through the buzzing glow to the stone head beyond. 'Less'n you had a way t'get de whole statue outta dat pyramid in one piece wit'out Cable noticin' den I don' t'ink you should be sayin' anyt'ing either, non?'

Shaw didn't rise to the baiting tone he used, and Remy was a little disappointed about that. 'We could have used Ozymandias. He could have proved an invaluable resource.'

'Or he coulda reported t'de big guy where we were an' led 'pocalypse right to us.' Remy parried smoothly turning to face his present employer. 'You worry too much, mon ami.' Clapping Shaw on the shoulder cheerfully just to annoy the industrialist, Remy wandered towards the back of the lab. 'Ev'ry t'ing goin' jus' as we planned, non?'

Actually this was a lie; not so much that things were progressing to a plan, but instead the notion that there had been a plan at all. Remy LeBeau did not _do_ plans. It was against his basic principles of fecklessness and a lack of foresight. Of course he was a master of faking a plan, but that was a whole other card game.

_Spin the wheel……_

The entire lab was Labrador spotted in fluorescent lights and shadow; the stainless steel and plastic trapped under spotlights of halogen seemed harsh and bleached like bones in the desert. Other parts of the lab merged into indistinct shadow, pinpointed with blinking LED lights. The whole place made the hairs on the back of his neck tickle. Remy's destination was a small terminal in the far corner connected to a simple holographic projector. The spinning image of a six inch tall 3D Cable underwent a constant rotation of shifting metamorphosis between the Summer's bebe's speed grown form to that of Apocalypse and back again over and over.

'We done kicked the hornets nest; got to wait to see what swarms up.' The Cajun wasn't sure who it was, precisely, he spoke to. The hologram, Shaw, the ghosts of mistakes past; it didn't really matter either way. Remy liked the sound of his own voice whoever, or whatever, the audience.

Waving his hand through the holographic image just to watch it split and waver it occurred to Remy that this game he played was about ready to explode; who knew how many new players were about to join the table? The thought made him smile. Any liar knew the way to break a secret was to share it and the way to ruin a game was to teach everyone the rules – even when that game was the potential enslavement of the entire world.

'And I suppose you'd have me believe that it didn't occur to you when you decapitated Ozymandias that this might render him useless to me?' Shaw demanded somewhat dryly.

The scent of the man's aftershave proved surprisingly potent as the older mutant came up beside Remy. It really was amazing just how much his sense of smell had improved since giving up the smokes. If it wasn't for the constant nicotine withdrawal and not knowing what to do with his hands, Remy might even be at peace with his decision to finally kick the habit.

Shaking off such thoughts he chuckled and said something that probably wasn't all that wise, 'Homme if'n it din't occur to _you_, how you t'ink it gon occur t' lil' ole me?'

Shaw's answer was to slam his head into the wall of the lab and hold him pinned there. Personally Remy didn't think much of his witty repartee. 'Do not try my patience, LeBeau.' Shaw's voice remained devoid of any discernable change in tone, no different than it would if the man was discussing the weather. 'It would be very foolish to double cross me now.'

Face pressed into the wall Remy smiled with difficulty, but he did smile. 'Non, homme wouldn' wan' do dat.' He demurred blandly, or tried too. It was hard to be suave when his nose was squashed into the wall. Shaw's mutant power allowed him to absorb and transform energy into brute strength, as far as Remy could figure. That meant that his own biokinetic power would be completely useless – or worse – would make it easier for Shaw to crush his head like an egg.

'What are you hiding?' Monsieur Sebastian demanded. Distantly Remy was aware of Tessa standing a few feet behind her master. Remy sighed and relaxed as much as he could with his face being squashed into solid steel.

'C'n you be more specific, mon ami? Got a lot o' secrets, me.' Rolling his eyes so he could just see Shaw he smiled his best, most inane smile.

Truthfully Remy was getting tres, tres tired of constantly being accused of imminent betrayal and deception. Oui, he'd made a career out of being a Judas in waiting, but, mon dieu, couldn't the other man have a little faith, especially after all the good work he'd done with the gangs of Sydney? Mary Mother of God; how'd it figure that he could be distrusted by the whitecaps when he joined them because they thought he was a villain and then distrusted by the villains who thought he might still have delusions of goodness? How was that even fair? It particularly annoyed him under the present circumstances. Mon dieu if there was a double agent in this room then the smart money was on the delectable, lingerie fetishist at Shaw's back. Briefly Remy met Tessa's inert gaze and wondered not for the first time how often she reported to monsieur Charles. Still it was important to be courteous to an employer, so he would be polite and refrain from making any unkind aspersions of his own.

'Why so stressed, m'sieur? All work an' no play makin' Seb a dull boy, neh?' He asked sweetly and with a disgusted sigh Shaw released him suddenly. Remy rubbed at his bruised cheekbone and kept hold of his smile. Ah mais oui, there weren't nobody who could out suave him. Swallowing a chuckle Remy schooled his face into an attentively blank mask, sort of like the one Tessa wore all the damn day.

'We're not making enough progress.' Shaw glared down at the holographic Cable-pocalypse. 'I have already spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on this _project _and as yet I am not impressed with the returns.'

Remy grinned, tongue running around his inside cheek lapping at the blood where his teeth had cut flesh, 'You can' rush Armageddon, mon ami.'

Shaw ignored that, and Remy decided this was probably a good thing. He continued to rub absently at his sore cheek. He studied Shaw as the other man watched the Cable hologram. Remy was a gambler and a risk taker, and those reckless tendencies had only gained more ground since he'd started to lose his marbles. Still Shaw was dangerous. Sure, Sebastian wasn't in league with the heavy hitters in the pantheon of mutant nut-jobs out there. He wasn't Magneto, he wasn't even Sabretooth; he didn't have the maniacal drive of the former or the sheer force of nature destructiveness of the latter. Non, Shaw was dangerous because he was a crook, and a very successful crook. Unlike Magneto, or even Apocalypse, Shaw didn't believe in anything except his own profit. That sort of complete lack of interest in the pursuits of good or evil made Shaw both easier to use and harder at the same time.

_Fortune favours de bold Remy-boy, an' de Lord protects his fools. We got this far by being bold and foolish, we can string out this lil' dance a petite bit longer, non? _

Watching Shaw stalk towards the useless piece of statuary with mademoiselle spy at his back Remy had the sense of time slipping away from him. He couldn't afford to lose Shaw, but unless he started handing him tangible gains, the spoils of a war Remy was in fact busting a gut to avoid, he would never be able to overcome Shaw's distrust. This was what folks called a conundrum; a genuine dilemma. The trouble was this game wasn't about winning the pot; it was about making sure there was no pot to win – and that was not a very enticing proposition to a man of Monsieur Sebastian's tastes. So Remy had sweetened the offer (otherwise known as lying through the skin of his teeth) and added some enticements of his own. Trouble was now he was expected to deliver on those false promises.

'I want progress LeBeau,' Shaw told him in no uncertain terms. 'You promised me the secrets of the Celestials. You promised me technology to rival En Sabah Nur himself. So far you have delivered me a stone head and a considerable expenses bill.'

_Remy, Remy, Remy; you just never learn, do you homme? _

'I hear you M'sieur,' Remy began cautiously, balancing good bets and dangerous risks and deciding that the scales weren't never going to balance so why bother. 'Mebbe I better go do somet'ing about dat, non?' He spoke softly glancing quickly to Shaw and then to his ever-present and taciturn corset wearing shadow.

'Yes maybe you should.' Shaw didn't bother to look at him. Tessa never looked away from him. Dieu did the femme never blink?

D'accord,' Remy pursed his lips turning to amble back up the steps he had distained when he entered. 'Progress,' his smirk turned wry on the word, 'oui I'll get right on it.'

_Spin the wheel and spin again; Jesus Remy once you be done there ain't gon be nobody left to save you from your sin. _


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Seven: Madripoor – 2011**

The armed killers arrayed around him all wore full face masks and skin-tight state of the art combat jumpsuits. There were speakers set into the gas mask grills, which conveniently scrambled the men's voices. Remy smiled faintly to himself as he loitered in the windowless waiting room (all the better to kill him quiet like) for his audience with Madame Viper, Prince of Madripoor. Although he'd made an appointment and arrived on time, like a good little lamb to the slaughter, the Hydra goons had still taken his cards. Dieu, they'd have taken the top layers of flesh from his bones too if he'd let them.

'You all mind if I look at de pretty pictures, mes amis?' He asked the less than friendly welcoming committee. Without waiting for the complete lack of response he knew was coming he ambled across the cold and sterile marble antechamber towards one of the various 'treasure' scattered about.

He had to hand it to Viper; she sure knew how to live like a prince. The Ming vase carefully displayed on a pedestal by the door was a fake, but it was an expensive fake and with the right buyer that could make all the difference. The marble floor would have cost a pretty penny too and wouldn't have looked out of place atop Mount Olympus; the same again for the faux Corinthian pillars by the gold inlay double doors. Still, considering most of her "subjects" lived in abject poverty and had to all but swim in their own shit down in the slums Remy found the beautifully feng shui opulence of Viper's nest a little distasteful.

'Now dis is nice,' walking over to the Caravaggio canvas filling one wall Remy scrutinised the painting carefully. Another knock-off, but even so, find the right auctioneer (and grease the homme's palms just so) and he could sell this beauty off for an easy hundred thousand. He stroked his fingers over the ostentatious gold gilt frame meditatively. The framing was shoddy work; he could have the whole canvas out of that frame in less time than it took most folks to tie their shoes. He clucked his tongue. That there was the problem with the nouveaux riche; don't matter how much money they beg, borrow, or steal, taste just can't be bought.

Remy was still involved in his mental appraisal of the objects in the room when behind his back he felt a shifting in the stances of his anonymous guards and heard the slightest clink of a recessed door in the wall off to his left opening. A-ha the snake had slithered out of her nest, oui? Pitter-pattering his fingers over the frame one last time Remy turned in unhurried fashion to face the former Mrs Wolverine in the eye. He offered up a flourishing bow for good measure – that was how a body should greet royalty, non?

'Bonjour Madame, t'ank you for seein' me.'

Viper, Prince of Madripoor, the once and possibly _still _first lady of Hydra, stood almost directly in front of him, a fall of dark hair covering the right side of her face, encased in a green cat suit so tight Remy was pretty definite about the fact that she wasn't wearing any underwear.

'Gambit,' the woman cocked a hip and crossed her arms over her chest. The movement allowed her fingers to brush across the butt of one of the two pistols she wore in a double rig holster.

Remy smiled, 'Madame Viper, you flatter me, non?' He nodded to her stance and to her ostentatious armament. This woman had been kicking over the traces and leaving corpses all across the globe for longer than he'd been breathing. Mon dieu, this woman was the great Seraph's protégé, she done learned her skills the same place Logan had, and yet she still felt the need to come armed to a meeting with lil' ole Remy LeBeau. 'Dere be few t'ings more beautiful den a woman ready for business, madame.' He gave her another shallower bow, but did not once look away from her.

Viper snorted sourly but uncrossed her arms, 'Are you here to fuck me or bargain mutant?' Her blunt words were haunted by the trace of an accent; something eastern European, if Remy was to make a guess, but he couldn't say exactly which country. He favoured the woman with his best fake laugh and held his arms out wide.

'Lady's choice, madame,' brushing his fingers down the lapels of his jacket Remy checked the lay of his silk tie. 'Mostly dis be a,' he paused a moment to consider his words – and drag out the moment, 'courtesy call, non?'

'A courtesy call?' Viper shifted her stance once again from one hip to the other. Remy watched the play of muscle against the tight sheath of her black-green attire beginning to enjoy himself.

'Oui; come to tell you, your highness, dat you have X-men on your island.' He saw the slightest tensing of the muscles of the woman's forearms, and swallowed a smile pleased to have evoked such an obvious response.

Viper stared at him eyes flat as a rattlesnake's, 'Tell me something I don't know thief.'

Remy smiled lazily. 'D'accord, den how's dis; I 'appen to know for a fact dat de X-men be lookin' for somet'ing tres valuable. Somet'ing dat dey be willin' to do almos' anyt'ing to get dere hands on.' He arched his brow provocatively enjoying the game. 'Also know dat dey ain't gon find it where dey be lookin for it.'

Viper continued to stare at him but there was now something more to that flat look than merely studied indifference, 'Why are you telling me this. You're no longer an X-Man.' Her one eye narrowed slightly, 'I had heard they kicked your sorry ass out.'

A tiny fission of pleasure and triumph flittered through Remy's bloodstream, like a hit of moonshine to the gut. Ah oui, it had been inspired of him to propagate a whole bunch of slanders about him and the X-men. Weren't none of them a thousand miles off the mark either; he'd just jumped before they could give him the shove, that was all. Still it worked so well having all these shady folks thinking that he had an axe to grind against the X-Men; gave them a sense of power – and Remy was all about giving power to the people, n'est pas? Or at least, giving folks the _illusion_ of power.

'All de more reason to be de one to spoil dere plans, non?' He said aloud with another flash of teeth. Viper wasn't convinced however. She'd gone back to stroking a finger over the butt of one of her guns, wedged under her arm. Remy wasn't of a mind to be offended by this, mostly on account of the way her folded arms cradled her breasts, making of them a frame far prettier than the one holding the fake Caravaggio, was an arresting sight all its own.

'What do you want thief? Tell me quick before I shoot you and put us both out of your misery.' Viper wasn't afraid of him. Not really. She knew that she could drop him before he could make a move on her, and if he somehow got lucky and she missed then her armed goons sure wouldn't. Still the femme had sense enough to be wary. Maybe Remy wasn't reputed far and wide as a killer with a trail of corpses in his wake (though there be folks who would claim he was that too - anyone associated with the Morlocks for the most part) but he sure as hell was no babe in the woods either.

'A better question, madame Viper, woul' be what do de X-Men wan', non?' Very carefully and slowly, with exaggerated movements designed to make sure no jumpy gunman pumped some holes into his torso, Remy opened his jacket and pulled the slim leather journal from the modified inner pocket of his bespoke tailoring. 'A gift for you, my lady; wit' de compliments o' Sebastian Shaw.'

Viper made no move to take the diary from him so Remy walked over (very slowly – going wide of Viper and her goons) and placed the diary on the pink marble pedestal next to the fake Ming. He turned back to Viper with a smile, tapping fingers over the leather cover.

'Dis be one o' de Destiny Diaries,' He saw recognition flash in Viper's one eye again and savoured the moment; oui this was all going perfectly – and to think he'd been afraid the femme wouldn't know what a true treasure he was giving her. 'Better read den ole Nostrodamus, oui?' He shrugged casually and offered another empty smile. 'De X-Men be about ready to rip this island apart lookin' for dis here diary.' His smile grew very broad. 'Won't do dem no good – not less'n you be so kind as to trade dem for it.'

Viper was not a stupid woman. She did not waste breath on asking him how he came to have the diary or why he didn't want the X-men to have immediate access to it. She didn't ask why he was giving it to her either. Instead she went straight to the meat of the issue. 'And what if I wish to keep it for myself?'

Remy merely shrugged again refusing to allow his mounting triumph to show on his face. 'Dat be your choice, Madame. Don' matter to me one way or t'other.' He chuckled softly. 'Mon dieu, if'n de worl' as we know it gon end, den dat gon have an impact on you an',' he flicked his eyes towards the silent gas-mask rubes bookending the room, '– your associates, non? Moi, I figure you got a right to know what gon happen, d'accord?'

'And what do you want for this act of generosity, Gambit?' The fingers of Viper's free hand, the one not currently fondling her gun, danced in a butterfly pattern over her hip, both an invitation and a warning. Remy smiled thinly.

'Not'ing madame; dis my civic duty, non? Got to warn de folks de sky is fallin' oui?' He tweaked his gold tie pin and checked the matching cufflinks on his sleeves. 'Still,' he admitted in a lazy drawl. 'I'm jus' de messenger anyhow. Dis gift be from my employer, de once an' future Black King o' de entire Hellfire Club – monsieur Sebastian Shaw.' Remy flicked his gaze into the corners of the ceiling noting the vulgar mural painted across the plaster, which seemed to involve a lot of overweight cherubs. 'If'n you feel inclined, in response to his generosity, Monsieur Shaw woul' appreciate de support o' de Prince o' Madripoor in his bid to establish hisself in Sydney.'

'And that's it?' Viper was, perhaps understandably, a petite bit sceptical.

'Oui, dat it,' Remy shrugged mind already dancing ahead from this scam to the next. This was a scam par excellence; everybody trying to figure out the plot even though there was none. He almost laughed; oui _this_ was power to savour right here.

'Monsieur Sebastian holds you and yours in de highest o' esteem, madame.' Remy laid the charm on a little thicker for the hell of it. 'He consider it an honour to do you a good turn, n'est pas?'

Viper smiled a slow and cold expression not believing a word of it but confident that she could kill him if she needed to anyway. 'Very well thief. I will accept this gift – and consider an apt response to your _master's _generosity.' The hissing bite of mockery was supposed to sting but Remy was unconcerned. You couldn't mock a man for serving if he chose the terms of his own servitude.

'D'accord, madame Viper; it been a pleasure.' Bowing deeply and theatrically for a third and final time Remy watched the woman slink back into her nest. The lady of Hydra had left the diary where he had put it, disregarded on the pedestal, yet he had no doubts in his mind that as soon as he was safely gone Viper would return for it.

And there in was the rub; for the chalice was poisoned you see.

******

**2011 Akkaba Egypt**

Under a baking sun amid rubble thousands of years old two men faced off over an emotional, professional, and familial divide that seemingly could not be breached.

'Cable be reasonable,' doing his best to keep his tone level Cyclops already knew this plea would go unheeded. 'We have the same goal; all I'm asking is that you work with us to stop Apocalypse.'

Knee deep in half pulverised masonry the mutant mercenary and Askani son did not even bother to face the man he did not truly acknowledge as his father. 'No we don't.' He growled using his hands and his telekinesis to dig through the rubble of the former Akkaba pyramid. 'I'm not going to quit until Apocalypse is dead Cyclops, and the X-men don't have the balls for the tough calls. You people will slow me down.'

There was no point arguing the point and Cyclops knew he'd receive no help from Cable's up until now silent partner Domino. Instead he used a low intensity wide band optic blast to clear away a drift of rubble that much more swiftly. 'Do you even know what you're looking for?'

Cable turned then, the eldritch golden light of his scarred eye flashing like sunlight on water, harsher even than the merciless desert sun above. 'What the flonq do you think I'm digging for?'

'To relieve frustration?' Scott's bone dry attempt at levity sank to the hard packed desert soil like a lead balloon. Domino gave him a thoughtful look but Cable just ignored him. Scott sighed. 'Can you at least tell me what you were looking for in the first place – before the pyramid blew?'

'Apocalypse,' His son growled and Scott resisted the desire to snap out in frustration himself at that glib response. Instead he asked levelly through his teeth. 'I take it you didn't find him?'

Cable paused, straightened up from his labours, and finally turned right around to face Cyclops directly. The two Summers men met eye to visor barely three feet a part, both crossing their arms over their chests so that their stance mirrored the other. To any casual observer their familial relationship would have been obvious, though considering Cable appeared to be in his early fifties and Scott was barely thirty it was doubtful said casual observer would get their exact relationship right.

'It's time Cyclops,' Cable forced himself to be patient and to explain. 'Blacquesmith confirmed it. This is the millennial moment; a new coming of Apocalypse.' There was another spark from that star-scarred eye. 'En Sabah Nur is rising and no one is going to be ready to take him down. _Flonq_ this is the reason I stay in this time period; to take Apocalypse out once and for all.'

Scott frowned and through the lens of his visor it was possible to see a banked and pulsing glow of ruby power, fed by the unfiltered sun above. 'Millennial moment, what is that? We're a decade into the new millennium already.'

Cable hissed his frustration shaking his head in disgust. 'The year doesn't matter, Cyclops. This has been building for decades.' He turned a time worn face out across the dusty expanse of rubble that had once been a towering pyramid. 'You don't know, _you can't know_, what's coming. You have never seen the true might of Apocalypse.'

'The X-men have faced Apocalypse down before.' Cyclops began but Cable immediately cut him off, jerking one metallic gleaming arm in a lashing motion through the air between them.

'No Cyclops you haven't,' Despite the vehemence of his words Cable's tone sounded more tired than angry. 'What the X-Men have faced before is not the true En Sabah Nur. Christ Cyclops, he's immortal; he has a hundred vessels. This timeline has yet to see the rising of the true Apocalypse.'

'A hundred vessels?' A thread of cold ran through Scott's spine. 'Wait, are you saying that there is more than one Apocalypse?'

'No,' the growl was pure frustration but something in Scott's pinched expression must have affected Cable because he relented a little. 'There is only one true En Sabah Nur, one true Apocalypse. He has been dormant for decades - longer than you've been alive – but he has lesser vessels, avatars, who walk in his stead. It is those lesser parts of Apocalypse's whole that the X-men have faced.'

'Clones?' Cyclops moved to perch on one of the still mostly intact lumps of masonry littering the desert. After a slight hesitation Cable took a seat on the edge of the same huge slab of stone.

'Not in the way you're thinking Scott.' Although he noticed the use of his given name Cyclops did not waste the moment or risk derailing the conversation by drawing attention to the unexpected familiarity. He merely waited for Cable to continue. Staring down at the techno-organic metal of his hand Cable's frown made him appear even more haggard and worn than he had before. It bothered Scott but as always he said nothing; guilt choked his tongue.

'Flonq it,' Cable glared upwards briefly as if for inspiration in the burning face of the sun. 'En Sabah Nur has existed for millennia; his influence is everywhere – mostly places you X-men would never think to look.' Cable turned around to face him and his expression twisted in anger, lines of care etched granite deep. 'Scott, Apocalypse doesn't just think he owns this world – he _knows_ it. He has shaped the flow of civilisation from the time of the Pharaoh's until this moment; the moment he can ascend his rightful place once again.' The flame of gold in Cable's eye seemed oddly quenched as he spoke. 'Apocalypse isn't a usurper, he's a sleeping prince. I have seen what he will make of his kingdom. I have_ lived_ it and I will stop at nothing to see him destroyed once and for all.' A deep breath and a warning flashed in that scarred eye, 'No matter the cost.'

'How?' Ignoring the ominous warning, partly because he had heard it all before and partly because he lacked the means to deal with it just now, Scott focused on the immediate concern. 'Surely if Apocalypse had that much power he'd be running things already? Megalomania isn't subtle.' Cyclops rose to his feet, head pounding from the blazing sun. 'We have some of the diaries, Cable; the doomsday books written by the precog Destiny. We know Apocalypse is a threat – a very grave one – but what you're saying,' he shook his head. 'You make it sound like Apocalypse is already in control – like it's a done deal, not a fight we can win.'

The expression on his son's face was almost frightening, not because of its severity – Cable was always severe – but because of the _pity_ Scott saw in his one good eye. Slowly Cable rose from the stone. 'Vargas.'

'What?' The shifting of Cable's shadow caused a spear of sunlight to stab him in the temple and Scott swiftly threw up an arm to shield his aching head. His powers fed on sunlight, but there was only so much he could take before he started feeling the effects of a mother of a migraine. Cable's grim frown was lost in silhouette but it carried well enough in his words.

'This is my fight Scott, not yours, not Jean's, not Xavier's; _mine_.' Cyclops opened his mouth in instant argument and Cable heaved a sigh and shook his head clearly unwilling to listen to another reiteration of the same old arguments of family, trust, and loyalty that had so far failed to move him. Meeting Scott's visored regard his time worn son offered one scrap of information, part apology, part distraction.

'If you want to know the truth, check out Vargas - and the brethren of the blood. Find them and you'll understand just how screwed your world truly is.'

**********

**Madripoor: 2011**

'Storm, we ain't gonna find anything, hon.' Rogue blew an errant lock of white hair from her face and shifted from one hip to the other. The Madripoor heat clung to her body and made her scalp itch. Eighty percent humidity, thousands of blood sucking little critters, and the smell of over ripe garbage and dirt roads; Rogue chuckled ironically, if it wasn't for the lack of rusty old pick-up trucks and good ole boys chewing tobacco she might almost believe herself back home in Caldecott County.

Up ahead Ororo was a woman on a mission; or maybe just a woman possessed. The team had been haring all over Madripoor's less salubrious neighbourhoods for the last week, chasing down hints on the location of one of Irene's diaries. Now however, Storm had widened their scope to include searching out the odd fella with the sword Rogue had tussled with a few nights back. All in all, this whole mission was well on the way to downtown FUBAR.

'I agree with Rogue,' Bishop rumbled, checking his gun and managing to look not nearly as conspicuous as Rogue might have thought he would in this shanty town back alley. 'We have found nothing to validate the rumours pertaining to the diary – and now we know that our presence has been noted by hostile elements.' The big guy glanced towards Rogue with a nod. 'We should report back to the mansion.'

Rogue clucked her tongue and shared an amused glance with Betts, who reclined languidly against a moderately clean brick wall. It didn't take an expert in interpersonal skills to realise that Bishop had just made a pretty grave conversational and tactical error there.

'We will report back when we have something to report, Bishop.' Storm's haughty response was undermined by her fearsome glare. Rogue wondered if it was the heat and the stink getting to their leader, or just general frustration with their lack of progress. Pride had gotten a real solid strangle hold on Storm; she had taken the team out here to Madripoor against Cyclops and the Prof's wishes. Nothing short of a total disaster was going to make Ororo Munroe return to Westchester empty-handed.

Rogue sighed and resigned herself to more futile searching. 'Well sugar, where do ya suggest we look next?'

*******

Vargas emerged from the shadows after the X-Men had vacated the area. He frowned. Stories of the X-Men spoke of a resourceful, resilient, and above all, _effective_ para-military group with a membership possessing a number of diverse and useful skills for all manner of mission parameters. So far he had seen nothing to support the intelligence he had been given.

He was perturbed. So much of what he had considered inalienable fact had already been thrown into question. His whole stratagem was now in question; everything he had done since approaching the Marauder in Sydney had been predicated on facts now apparently far from certain.

Vargas knew the Marauder would act as he predicted. He already had, if the rumours regarding Ozymandias' demise were to be believed. The Black King rose in the south and the Garden would soon begin bearing fruit. Vargas had essentially guaranteed such. Yet it would all be for nothing if the X-men had not the native wit needed to play their parts.

He had thought, after revealing himself to the one called Rogue, that the X-men would come for him as a matter of urgency. He had assumed that they would know enough to recognise the face of their enemy by now. In fact he had banked on it. Now it seemed he must amend his plans. From the inside of his long black coat Vargas pulled out the compact digital camera from his pocket. Scrolling through the surveillance shots he had made, he stopped on one in particular:

'Rogue.'

_The untouchable in peril. _

It was unfortunate that the X-men appeared so lacking in person compared to their reputation, yet his mission was paramount. He could not allow his brethren of the blood to succeed. His life was already forfeit for denying the will of the blood; he had no fears for his own survival. A puppet does not fear death, for he does not truly live. If he must shed the blood of Xavier's chosen as well to ensure the Old One did did not rise, then so be it. It was not to his liking but if the X-men could not be relied upon then they would serve as a sacrifice for a greater good. It mattered not in the end. The outcome would never be in question. He was Vargas. There was nothing else to be said.

*******

**Location Undisclosed:**

She crossed the room, heels sinking into thick carpet. Moonlight glossed in silvered flow through the window, caught in the net of lace curtains, so that pale shadows swayed upon the floor like uncut wheat. Gripping her elbows tight to her chest she stared sightlessly at the holographic projection of the Anathema and his sire amid the wreckage of Akkaba.

'We are sure Ozymandias is gone?'

'Yes Mistress,' Julio was, as ever, a rock of calm in stormy weather. Broad face devoid of emotion, dark eyes steady his certainty even when bearing such ill-tidings reassured her.

'It was not the Anathema who did this heinous thing?' Waving her hand before Julio or one of the others could speak she shock her head savagely, 'No, foolish, of course it was not. The Anathema sought out our dear comrade for his information. Even he would not have perpetrated such an act of mindless destruction.'

'Yet someone did.' Ernesto spoke up. Where Julio was the stillness of calm waters Ernesto was all impatience and bluster; he was like the hurricane. 'And this was no act of mindless destruction,' he dared contract her, 'this was a planned act. Now the _Chosen_ is suspicious; he is on guard and likely to deviate from the path.'

'Yes,' she hissed, fingernails digging into her thin bare arms. The chill of the air conditioning pebbled her flesh with goose-bumps. She stared down Ernesto. 'Who do you suppose could do such a thing? Who do you suppose would have the audacity to meddle in the affairs of our king?' Turning away from her insubordinate brother she paced back to the window, still hugging her arms around herself. She spun around again as she reached the window and almost flew back to the table. Her words to Ernesto came accompanied with a ringing slap to burn his cheek with a brand of shame. 'Who would dare destroy Ozymandias, whom our lord punished to suffer an eternity in stone clad servitude?'

Ernesto could not help sinking back in his chair a little and averting his eyes even as his cheek throbbed with blood, 'I……do not know mistress.'

'What of our brother?' Delores spoke up from the other side of the large, glossy wood table and her face was serene in its composure; her lank dark hair fell like rain around her shoulders. 'He has failed his blood, failed his brethren, and we have yet to find him. He could have done this.'

'Estefan,' like sucking on a rotten lemon the very name curdled and burned on her tongue. 'Yes, yes, he could have done this. Yet……'

'This does not feel like the work of the one of the blood.' Julio finished the thought for her. His dark eyes bored into hers. 'Mistress, I am loathe to suggest this but……'

She waved her hand, trying to forestall the words, 'Yes my brother, I know. I know what this could be. Let us pray that it is not.'

Around the table her sister and brothers of the blood exchanged nervous glances but no one dared speak aloud and give weight to their fears. She turned from the table once more and faced the window, watching dark clouds scud across the full moon. She prayed to her lord, her master, and her creator, that things were not quite as it seemed. _Let it not be so my king: spare us all from the rising of the Twelve. _


End file.
